Chuck Versus the Steampunk Chronicles
by Steampunk.Chuckster
Summary: 1896. A world powered by steam, where humans and machines coexist, and airships are the fashionable mode of transport. The US Empire's deepest and darkest secrets arrive at Chuck Bartowski's doorstep. Have they fallen into the wrong hands? Or will the inventor prove his mettle, even while he's forced to hide from the very people he's protecting? AU, ongoing chronicle, Charah.
1. Prologue

**A/N: **And here it is. The prologue of _Chuck Versus the Steampunk Chronicles_.

This is, believe it or not, the first piece of Chuck fic I ever started writing, hence my penname. It took a lot to gather the courage to finally post it after almost a year of working on it. But I did it. And here it is.

**Summary: **In 1776, George Washington declared himself King of the United States of America and began turning a new nation into the United States Empire: expanding to the west, amassing colonies and gaining power. Over one hundred years later, the government's secrets are at risk and a new way to keep them safe must be created. When those secrets are accidentally brought to inventor and toy maker Chuck Bartowski's doorstep, his future becomes uncertain as his life fills with adventures, hardships, and even a bit of romance.

**Disclaimer: **"Chuck" is not mine. Its characters are not mine. Though they might as well be, considering how often I think about them.

Enjoy my steampunk Chuck!

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**Somewhere near the capitol of the Royal Empire of the United States**

**1876**

"One hundred years of freedom from the bloody British and this is what we have to show for it?"

Women in rags timidly proffered baskets of half-rotted onions. Children with coal-smudged faces sat behind them, mere piles of bones buried in cloth. The factories towered over the pitiful creatures, spewing black smoke into the early morning sky, soot mixing with clouds, a light mist of burning rain showering down on the city.

"Always so negative," came the deep rumbling reply.

"Always so positive," the small woman snapped back. "Are you looking? Really looking?"

His dark eye roved over the street.

"Our empire is the most powerful in the world, General. How can you say we haven't progressed since George Washington proclaimed himself King of this great nation?" The tall dark-skinned man felt a twinge in his knee and lifted his silver cane, smacking the brass leg beneath his troublesome joint. "We are the _best_."

"Are we, Director?" She sighed and pulled her top hat further over her ears as the river wind burst through the street and set her coat to fluttering behind her. The woman then tugged the coat closer to her body, covering the men's trousers and cotton blouse she wore beneath it. "My priority is protecting the King, and protecting his people. Anything that gets in the way of that…" She paused, starting to walk along the street again. "Well, let's just hope nothing gets in the way of that."

He chuckled darkly. "The way of the world."

She looked over her shoulder. "What?"

"It's the way of the world. Things getting in the way. Things not going according to plan. Mistakes being made. People dying…"

"Politicians being corrupted?" she inserted with some sting in her tone.

"Yes, even that. We just have to soldier on and do our jobs. No matter what, we do our jobs." He glanced at her quickly, taking in the paleness of her cheeks and the set of her hard eyes in her small face. "And we work together. Can you do that, General?"

She stopped suddenly and squinted at something ahead. "Now what in God's name is that?"

He followed her confused gaze with his one good eye.

A thick layer of soot hovered over the rooftops, black tar clouds of poison mingling with the dark filth spewing out of the smokestacks dotting the horizon. This was a common enough sight.

But then he saw the oddity she was referring to.

A large, round object that looked to be made of some sort of black shiny metal was slowly lowering from the clouds and into view. It lingered over the factory two blocks away that served as a front for their underground government facility, more of it coming into view as it sunk down from behind the cloud.

Dozens of ropes spilled over the railings of what was revealed to be a large, black airship silently descending over the buildings. Men cloaked all in black slid down the ropes and disappeared as they dropped to the roof of the factory.

Not a moment later, a loud cacophony of booms sounded and the dusty windows shattered, plumes of smoke gushing out. Flames began to lick at the sky, the horizon glowing red.

They burst into a run at the same time, racing down the street at breakneck speed, dodging the terrified citizens running away from the danger. When they finally neared the factory, with only momentary glances, they broke away from one another—the Director stopping at the front door while the General continued across the face of the building and around the corner.

The Director lifted his cane and tapped the tip of it twice against the stones at his feet.

_Rat tat!_

There was a soft whirring sound as a deadly, sharp blade shot out of the end of the cane. He brandished the cane like he would a spear and used his brass limb to kick down the door.

Flames licked at his long duster and he ignored the suffocating heat as he brought a finger to the tiny panel beside his mechanical eye. He turned the small dial and shut his one functional eye, relying on the map that appeared in front of him from his high-tech goggle.

Still brandishing his spear-cane, he stepped over the debris of unused assembly machines and rushed down the first hallway towards the staircase. He knew it would be foolish to continue underground to their offices and laboratories when the factory above was engulfed in flames.

But it would be still more foolish not to go in this case. In fact, it might lead to the end of the world as he knew it if he did not go. So he heaved the trapdoor in the floor of the back office open and was relieved to find the path clear of smoke.

He had to retrieve the files. Or die trying.

The Director raced down the stairs, ignoring the pain in his knee as he held his weapon at the ready.

He reached the bottom of the staircase and took a few steps into the lobby where he was immediately ambushed by a man who appeared out of the shadows, a gas mask and brass goggles obscuring his features, and wearing a black one-piece suit. The attacker's twisted knife plunged towards the Director, who sidestepped, opened his good eye, and locked his arm around his enemy's.

With a quick jerk of his bicep, a snap was heard in the other man's arm and the cry of pain was muffled behind the mask as he crumpled to the ground in agony. Swinging his cane around, the Director plummeted the blade at the end into the enemy's chest then tugged it back out again, ignoring the gurgling death noises the man made as he stole the gas mask and attached it to his own face, assuming the aggressors, whoever they were, had released some sort of gas.

One did not wear a gas mask to be fashionable, after all.

"Director!"

He spun and came face to face with one of his advisors, also wearing a mask he must have taken from an attacker who no longer had any use for it.

"Branson. Report."

"Seventeen armed men came down from the sky. From the sky! We didn't know they were there. It was an airship, silent, hiding in the clouds for who knows how long, just hovering there, waiting for—"

"Branson, this isn't a dime novel! What happened?"

The man snapped to attention. "Seventeen armed men swarmed the factory, then found the entrance into our base. They unleashed some sort of gas. The factory is on fire, Sir. But the files…"

"The files?"

"I knew I had to protect our secrets, Sir. So I hid them."

"Where?"

There was a loud _ratatat _of a rifle and Branson fell at the Director's feet, twitching in pain, blood pooling beneath him. "N-Nook, b-behind R-Ra—," came the advisor's last breath as the Director dove around the corner and pulled a shotgun out from beneath his coat.

He reached up and turned the dial at his eye, then swung back into the hallway. Two loud bangs and the sound of a shotgun racking followed.

The Director stepped over the hole-filled bodies of the two masked men he'd just killed. They were also wearing black, with gas masks and goggles, like the first man he'd stabbed. He didn't know who these men were, but he assumed they were from a terrorist organization. They always were. And what they were after? Well, that was a mystery he intended to get to the bottom of. But first, he'd have to secure the Empire's secrets.

He tossed the shotgun behind him, pulled back his coat and grabbed a revolver from his belt holster, stepping into the small boiler room that acted as a hallway into the main lab. He was immediately accosted by steam. The water swooshed through the clattering pipes hanging from the ceiling and the tanks they were connected to glugged noisily.

The Director moved slowly, his eyes darting back and forth, attempting to see into the shadows made by the massive tanks and mess of pipes that surrounded him. Suddenly he lifted his revolver and shot off to the left.

His enemy slumped forward out of the dark shadows, a red hand clutching the gushing wound at his chest. He crashed face first into the ground. A chill went down the Director's spine and he swung around to see a boot kick his revolver from his hand. He lifted his cane to block a wicked blade that swung down at him, simultaneously bringing his knee up into the assailant's ribs. He heard the crack of bone and whipped the man in the face with the cane.

As the terrorist staggered backwards from the blow to the head, his goggles shattered from the impact, the Director dropped to the ground and swept the man's legs from under him so that he dropped like a sack of potatoes.

He was knocked unconscious when he hit his head on the temperature gauges mounted on the tank behind him.

The Director found his revolver and picked it up, ready for anyone else who meant to attack and continued carefully to his destination. He found himself in the lab a mere handful of minutes later. He shot and killed two men rifling through the file cabinets, then waited at the door to see if he could hear more aggressors approaching.

After a tense minute of silence, he rushed to the corner of the lab where a four foot tall bronze statue of the Egyptian god Ra stood. A round orb balanced on his head that was carved with a hawk-like face. A golden snake curled around the orb and bared its menacing fangs, almost as if it was frozen in the middle of lunging to attack.

Holstering his revolver again, he reached up and wrapped his fingers around the smooth neck of the serpent and yanked it down hard. A whirring sound could be heard from inside of the wall behind Ra and a rectangular chunk of the wall collapsed backwards, leaving a small nook. The Director glanced over his shoulder at the entrance into the lab and slid behind the statue to reach into the nook, his fingers feeling around the stone until he found what he was looking for.

He could smell the approaching fire as he tugged the files out of their hiding place and shoved them down the back of his pants. He dropped his coat tails back down and squeezed out from behind the statue, grabbing the snake lever and shoving it into place again. The panel slid forward and the wall was smooth and seemingly untouched once more.

Satisfied, the Director unholstered his weapon and rushed out of the room. Come what may, he was ready to protect the secrets to his last breath.

It meant getting the files out or death in the attempt.

The fire had journeyed from above and now licked at any surface it could find. In hindsight, the construction of the underground facility did not take fire into consideration, he thought to himself as he glanced up at the wood beams of the ceiling.

One of the beams broke as the flames snuck along its length. It swung towards him, and he dove out of the way to avoid getting a burning chunk of wood straight to his face. Coughing and sputtering, the Director continued down numerous hallways, his eye-map activated, and finally emerged in a tunnel, his limbs aching as he maneuvered through the flickering lamp lights that would soon prove to be fatal when the fire reached the gas-filled chamber.

If he didn't get out, he would have to make sure the files were destroyed. He forced images of throwing himself into a wall of fire and letting it engulf him from his mind as he reached a large metal door with a locking wheel attached in its center. He holstered his gun again and set his hands to the wheel.

His attention was pulled from the door when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. He pulled his gun out just in time. A terrorist burst around the corner at breakneck speed, a rifle raised to his shoulder.

There was a short report from the rifle and pain radiated through the Director's thigh as he threw himself to the ground to get out of the way. From his perch on the floor, he raised his gun and put two bullets in the man, one in his sternum and the other in his forehead just above his goggles.

Wincing in pain, and purposefully ignoring the graze on his leg, he climbed to his feet and quickly turned the locking wheel, yanking the door open and hurrying over the threshold. He shut the door and locked it behind him, then hobbled painfully up the stairs.

He continued as fast as he could, sweat pooling in his gas mask. Assuming the gas was clear in this building, he ripped the mask off and tossed it away, wiping at his face with the back of his sleeve.

The director hurried up at least three flights of stairs and climbed up a long ladder, pushing through a hatch into the attic. Within moments, he reached the door to the roof.

With an adrenaline-driven grunt in his throat, the Director brought his brass boot to chest level to kick the door down when it swung outward. He blinked at the small woman smirking on the other side, a pair of flying goggles fastened over her startlingly hard eyes. "Try the handle, Director."

He spared her a snarl and swept past her. "Anything on who these bastards are?"

"No correspondence from the Castle yet. The files?"

"And just what do you think _these _are?" he growled through his teeth, lifting the back of his coat for her to see where he'd jammed them down his trousers.

"There's a medal in this for you, Director."

"Already got enough medals in the war. Don't need another. And General, don't take this the wrong way, but shut your trap and get us out of here, or no one is gettin' any medals!"

They rushed across the roof, slipping and sliding on the tin plates until they reached the small four seater airship, propellers attached at the bottom and a large steam-filled balloon looming above.

The Director and the General leapt into the craft and she set her hands to the controls. "Hold on to your pantaloons, Director. This might be a bumpy flight."

They lifted off from the landing pad as a line of gas-mask wearing henchmen burst out of the door and scattered along the roof, raising their guns to shoot at the aircraft. One of their bullets dinged against the door and the Director swung around so that the rifle he picked up from behind the seat hung out of the ship's porthole.

He fired wildly into the group, hitting a few of them and startling the others into stopping their attack for a moment.

As he continued the cover fire, the General moved the craft towards the south.

Soon the figures on the rooftop were mere dots in the Director's line of sight and he pulled back into the craft and slid into the passenger's seat beside the General. "We're clear."

"Good. Now what the hell was that? Bandages under your seat," she added, noticing the blood staining his pants.

"I don't _know_ what it was," he groused, tearing at his pant leg and starting to clean his wound with the gauze from the tin tucked under the seat. "But whoever they were, I'm assuming they got some intel. Who's to say our other locations didn't receive similar visits?"

"Think they were told where all our secret bases are located? A double agent?"

"Could be. We have to get a message to the King and the Minister of Defense. Immediately."

"First we have to find someplace safe to land."

They were silent for a few minutes, gazes roving the skies around them for any sign they were being followed.

The Director spoke up. "I found a few of them in the lab, looking through the file cabinets. They were after our secrets. I don't know for sure, but it damn well seemed like it." He winced at the turbulence that jarred his leg.

"Yes, well…they didn't get 'em."

"But someday they might," he said darkly.

"Now who's being negative?" Her attempt at humor fell flat and they both knew it, so she continued. "We need a better way to keep our secrets safe. We need to hide them. From everyone. Perhaps even the King himself."

"Hmm. Who knows what might happen if the wrong person got to our secret database?"

"The end of the world as we know it," she murmured cryptically, her mouth a hard line beneath the large goggles covering most of her face. "We need a safe place to catalogue our secrets, a place no one will suspect. Perhaps something that would be in constant motion, something mobile."

"Agreed."

The small airship drifted into the clouds and disappeared, leaving the dark, dingy world and its residents below none the wiser about the catastrophe that had just been avoided.

The factory workers hammered on, the steam-carriages puttered along, and the street cleaners shoveled horse dung into their soiled buckets.

Soon, day would drift into night, and the gaslit streets would come alive with crime. The patrolmen would pace half-asleep, turning a blind eye to the organized crime rings and prostitution and the business fronts behind which violent fights were betted upon. Card games would be lost and won, and opium bartered and consumed.

And when morning broke again, the streets would fill with man, beast and machine.

The King would awaken and devour his breakfast.

The Director and the General would gather the best, most loyal and trustworthy scientists in the United States Empire.

And they would find a better way to protect the world's greatest and most terrible secrets.

Consequences be damned.

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**A/N: **And so it begins.

I'm going to be honest. Considering how intense I was about editing this prologue, I can't give you a proper schedule for when I'm going to post each chapter. As with my other story, it will vary. I hope you all stick around, though. Because I have so much planned.

Also, the "chronicles" part of the title is important. While this story will move forward chronologically, the plot is extremely expansive. Like a television show, there will be multiple subplots and other things working in the background, things building off to the side, on top of the larger, overarching plot. In other words, this one will be going on for a very long while. Hopefully, I can keep your attention!

I'd love to hear what you all think about the prologue, though! Thanks to everyone who's been so supportive thus far!


	2. The Umbrella is Certainly a Necessity

**A/N: **I present to you the first chapter of _Chuck Versus the Steampunk Chronicles_.

Thank you to everyone who graced the prologue with such a warm reception. You're all incredibly kind. Some of you too kind. Thank you, thank you.

**Summary: **In 1776, George Washington declared himself King of the United States of America and began turning a new nation into the United States Empire: expanding to the west, amassing colonies and gaining power. Over one hundred years later, the government's secrets are at risk and a new way to keep them safe must be created. When those secrets are accidentally brought to inventor and toy maker Chuck Bartowski's doorstep, his future becomes uncertain as his life fills with adventures, hardships, and even a bit of romance.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own "Chuck". Or the term "Steampunk". But you can be sure I revel in the opportunity to combine both of those things and make something that is very much mine.

Without further ado, enjoy chapter one.

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**San Francisco**

**1896**

As he waited on the side of the street, Marcus Lane peered up at the umbrella he held over his head. The lamplight glowed eerily through the black fabric stretched tightly over the whalebone ribs, illuminating the raindrops sliding down to drip at his feet.

He stretched out a gloved hand and let the drops of water fall on it. A wan smirk appeared beneath his thin black mustache and he blinked his grey, clear eyes. He was short and balding, in spite of his relative youth at only forty-three years of age. But his cheerful mouth didn't always serve to distract from the tired, almost mechanic stoicism of his gaze.

A few people stood behind Professor Lane, all waiting for the same trolley—two middle-aged spinsters in grey and a tall, bony young man with a straw porkpie hat covering his blonde hair. One of the women complained under her breath about the cacophonous sounds of the factories that surrounded them. Even at this hour of the night, and in the winter rain no less, the gears and pumps cranked and pounded, interrupting what might have otherwise been the still of the night. The sound had always comforted the professor. And he shared an amused smile with the young man, who clearly had no feelings either way about the noises of the city they'd gotten used to hearing as residents of the great city of San Francisco. A blimp whirred overhead, slugging along and leaving a misty blob of steam exhaust behind it.

The glugging sound of an approaching trolley reached his ears. The vehicle skidded on its tracks, rounding the nearby corner and trudging noisily and shakily to a stop in front of the group. "All aboard!" the driver bellowed as he tugged on the brake lever so hard his conductor's hat tipped forward on his head.

They all hopped onto the steps, Professor Lane helping his fellow female passengers up before he climbed onboard himself. The trolley was cramped, so he clawed into the center of the aisle and wedged himself between two rotund businessmen. He'd never fall over with them on either side of him.

The trolley reached his stop fifteen minutes later, and after many Excuse me's and even more Oh pardon Madam's he alighted and wiped his face with his tan handkerchief. As he stuffed it back in his inner coat pocket and righted the top hat on his head, he ambled down the walkway.

He moved through a clump of dockworkers huddled beneath their newsboys and coal smeared dusters, rolling dice along the wet pavement and speaking in hushed tones to each other. Dark, suspicious gazes pinned on Marcus, bloodshot eyes glaring from between the bills of their caps and the upturned collars of their coats, following him as he approached and passed by. The professor made a point to ignore the men, to reassure them he had no intention of calling the nearest patrolman on duty. Granted, the closer one wandered to the docks, the less likely one might be to find a patrolman. And it was quite possible said patrolman would have a stake in the illegal game of street dice.

But the professor prided himself in keeping his nose out of others' business. He had an instinct for what might get him in trouble, and he used it to keep _out _of trouble. It was a gift, one of his colleagues insisted.

As he left the docks behind and instead entered a less impoverished section of the district, he passed the faded posters lauding the subsequent arrival of some ambassador from somewhere—an ally of the United States. He made a point of ignoring the posters, though, aware of the trouble he might get into if he looked directly at the poster.

And then there were the swaying carriages with large flags waving from the backs, the cherished red white and blue, wet and fluttering limply in the rain. The soft whining of a cello from a window above and the accompanying broken voice of the schizophrenic, homeless woman listening beneath the window, attempting in vain to sing along to a song that existed in a memory that clung to a mostly broken mind.

Finally, Professor Marcus Lane moved up the steps of a two story brick building, pushed the door open, and heard the telltale jingle. "Hello, Prof. Marcus Lane here to see—" The youthful young man looked up from the desk.

"Dr. Terninin will see you now, Professor. If you'll wait here, I'll inform him of your arrival." Without waiting for response, the handsome young man bounded from the front desk and hurried down the hallway and out of Lane's sight.

Not five minutes later, the young man's voice drifted down the hallway. "He'll see you now, Sir!"

The young man was nowhere to be seen, but it wasn't difficult to figure out which room he was meant to go into. The rest were labeled as laboratories or storage closets.

As he walked in, he saw a man with a greying mustache and pointy beard. The man wore a brown tweed suit with a black tie. Round spectacles were perched at the end of his nose. He took them off as he smiled a youthful smile. "So," he said in a small accent that was difficult to discern. "You are the professor." He was either Russian or from one of the provinces nearby. "Come, sit sit."

Prof. Lane did so eagerly. He'd been so nervous about his appointment that he'd foregone supper. Now his stomach growled with a soft whir that reached his distracted ears as the doctor began speaking to him. "I hear you're not sleeping. Is that correct?"

"That is correct, Doctor. It has been a problem for a year or so. I cannot remember if I have ever experienced it before then. My memory leaves much to be desired, I am afraid."

"I see, I see."

"And then I feel heavier. Almost as though m-m-my limbs are difficult to m-move. My feet too heavy to lift some days. I mean, I champion on, of course. I've classes to t-teach."

"Yes, of course, of course. Heavy limbs. I see. And your breathing. Anything wrong with your breathing?"

"No, no. Except…" He stopped. "Oh, I c-can't," he chuckled nervously, aware of the strangely sudden stutter in his speech.

"What is it, Professor? Please, you must tell me or I cannot figure out what to do to help you." Doctor Terninin moved a chair nearby and sat in it, leaning closer.

"You w-will think I'm m-m-mad."

"Professor, I can assure you, whatever it is, I have heard madder. This is my job. Tell me."

Marcus sighed. "Well, I might be lying in bed at n-night, thinking about things and—It has hap-happened a few times where I realize I haven't _breathed_ in a long w-while. I am imagining it, of course. It is humanly imp-impossible. I just…I thought it b-b-best to see a professional."

"Rest assured, you came to the right professional. Any other things I should know about? Things that unsettle you? Leave you anxious, worried, nervous?" He scratched notes quickly in his small notebook.

"Hm…just…hm, one more thing. This started abuh-ab-about a year or so ago w-when my sleeping problems b-began. Sometimes things…appear in my vision."

"Spots?"

"No, no. Images. Things. Buh-buildings. P-People's faces I've never even met or seen before in m-m-my life." He tried to swallow his stutter. "Words. Sometimes they're violent, even."

The doctor's eyes bore into his patient's. "I see. Would you describe these as…flashes?"

"Yes, flashes. Exactly."

"I see. Well, Professor Lane. It is not as bad as you think. You are not suffering from any mental illnesses. No doubt your lack of sleep is the cause for these…visions…as well as the heaviness in your limbs. I suggest you go to the pharmacist and buy some sleeping pills. You will feel good as new once you get a good twelve hours. I shall write you a prescription now, in fact."

Marcus thanked his doctor profusely, took the handwritten prescription, and left the room. The young man he'd met at the desk was nowhere to be found, so he merely blinked and left the building, walking down the wet sidewalk towards his trolley stop.

A few minutes later, he heard quick footsteps behind him that sent a quick flash of something he couldn't identify through him. He turned, automatically clutching the closed umbrella tightly in his fist. But the man in front of him was too fast, having snatched the makeshift weapon from his grip and propping it jauntily on his own shoulder.

It was the young man who'd worked at his doctor's office, except his hair had a greyish tint to it now, almost as though he'd sprinkled dust in it.

"Ah, ah, ah," the young man snarked. "Rather slower response time than I expected. I'd prepared myself for much worse. You must be rusty. Or perhaps rust_ed_."

"Pardon? I'm a—"

"Sorry, Professor." The umbrella was brought down over his head and he collapsed to the wet pavement, blinking hazily up at the face above him, his last conscious thought being how strange it was that he couldn't feel the raindrops that surely wetted his skin.

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**A/N: **Patience. You'll meet some familiar faces soon. For now, just enjoy the story. (winks from behind a monocle)

Please review, if you'd be so kind. I'd be much obliged. Indeed. Indubitably. And so on. And so forth. As it were.


	3. Artificial Intersectigence

**A/N: **I'm sure some of you may be disappointed to see a lack of main characters so far in the story. All I ask is that you stick with me and keep reading. Thanks to everyone who has read, reviewed, PM'd me about this story so far. And a special thanks to those of you who are giving me so much encouragement. You're all fabuloso.

**Summary: **In 1776, George Washington declared himself King of the United States of America and began turning a new nation into the United States Empire: expanding to the west, amassing colonies and gaining power. Over one hundred years later, the government's secrets are at risk and a new way to keep them safe must be created. When those secrets are accidentally brought to inventor and toy maker Chuck Bartowski's doorstep, his future becomes uncertain as his life fills with adventures, hardships, and even a bit of romance.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own "Chuck". Or the term "Steampunk". But you can be sure I revel in the opportunity to combine both of those things and make something that is very much mine.

Enjoy!

* * *

When Professor Marcus Lane came to, he found himself strapped to a wooden board that was tilted at a forty-five degree angle from the ground. He was in some sort of underground, windowless workshop. Tools hung from the nearest wall, and iron gears were suspended, immovable, from the ceiling. A single candle was lit on a small table nearby where there were more tools that were a little too wicked for his timid sensibilities. The room smelled rather of cooked pig and hot oil, or perhaps turpentine. Or perhaps all three. And his chest burned much in the same way it did when he drank curdled milk or ate the fish that came from the inner bay and was usually doused in fire sauce by cooks to disguise the strong fishy taste.

"W-Where am I?" he asked with a harsh rasp, his tongue catching against his teeth.

"Ah, Professor. It's good you're up."

He looked around to see where the voice was coming from. Standing a few feet away from him was the young desk attendant from the psychiatrist's office who had attacked him.

"W-Why are you doing this to m-m-me?" he asked, swallowing hard.

"Still a little rusty, Marcus? May I call you Marcus?"

Marcus didn't answer, distracted by the way his mouth tasted like metal and suddenly he decided it tasted like nothing at all. And how strange it was that he couldn't feel his tongue. Or his teeth. Or lips.

The man walked over and held up a pair of pliers. He paused with the instrument poised over Marcus. "Don't worry. There's no possible way you'll feel any of this."

"What is this? What are y—What—What are you doing?" he asked shrilly, finding it difficult to form his words.

"Now just relax. I won't hurt you." He unbuttoned Marcus' vest first, then his shirt beneath that, revealing his pudgy stomach. Marcus began to struggle as the man began sliding his fingers over the soft, pliable skin of his sides. "Should be around here somewhere."

There was a strange clicking noise, at which Marcus began to feel a bit lightheaded. "Wha—What is—?

Another click sounded.

A door opened on his chest, revealing shifting gears and turning cogs. Marcus stared, wide-eyed, at his mechanical insides, his mouth suddenly dry, his lips quivering.

"I'm sorry you have to learn this way, Professor Lane." The sincerity on the handsome face of the young man was unexpected, but not quite as unexpected as the fist-sized clock that was latched into the left side of the cavernous steel compartment that was his chest—where his heart would have been were he human.

"Is this a dream?" his quivering voice asked.

"I am afraid not. We've been looking for you for years, Marcus. We just didn't know you would be so…human."

"I am not human," Marcus breathed, turning his head away in anguish that felt all too real. "It all makes sense now. I have never truly connected with w-women—"

"I do not need to know the details." The man held up his hand and stuck the screwdriver into Marcus' middle. The professor didn't feel a thing. Just regret. And now, understanding. "But there are things I need to know. What do _you_ know?"

"I thought I was human all these years. Ap-pa-parently, I know nothing." The shock was beginning to wear. A part of him had always wondered what was wrong with him, why he'd never felt hunger or thirst. He would eat and drink anyways, of course. It was a human necessity.

"Ever hear of the IEL?"

"The Institution of Egg Lovers?"

The young man smirked and dug around some more in his middle. "Still got your sense of humor, I see. I am talking about the Imperial Espionage League. Her Majesty's own elite agents who safeguard the empire and its assets. You_ are_ a professor, aren't you?"

"I teach mathematics, young man."

"Noted. Well, Professor Lane—rather, I should call you Prototype 534—I suppose I will tell you your story, since it seems you do not know it yourself." He paused and set down his tools, pulling up a chair and sitting at the automaton's side. "Ten years ago, after the king's daughter ascended the throne, she tasked the IEL to begin a project that would effectively protect the government's closest-guarded secrets, while also creating a super-weapon at the same time. The Intersect would retain every last secret about our defenses, files on villains and terrorists, every single crime that we'd ever logged in the database for the last…oh, say seventy years…as well as the intimate knowledge of foreign languages, martial arts, and any other skill you could possibly think of, down to the appropriate fashions for certain situations. Rather brilliant, eh?" He scooted his chair closer. "Whoever had the power of the Intersect in his hands would catch a threat against Her Majesty and the Empire immediately, in effect putting a halt to any future danger the villain might pose. Also quite brilliant."

"The Interse-sect?"

"Yes. They first attempted to put it in a handheld device." He lifted a pistol up from the table and showed it to the automaton. "A bit like this. You could point it at that person and all of the information about him or her would be readily available to you. But it was far too perceptible, and therefore too dangerous. Also, it is much too easy for an agent to lose a gun." He paused again. "Then they decided they would construct the Intersect to be put into someone's brain. They traveled around the world, training IEL agents, testing morality and loyalty to Her Majesty the Queen. Testing skill sets like fighting and lock picking and a steady head under pressure. Even the best agents were not trustworthy enough to house the government's most secretive of secrets. Rumor is they tested an agent, put the Intersect inside of his head, and he didn't survive it. So they decided the only thing they could trust with the Intersect was something they themselves could control, something stronger than a human brain to handle that much power. They built an automaton and inserted the Intersect into it. Then they programed someone else's life, someone else's memories, into the automaton, making him believe he was human."

"Prototype 534?" the automaton asked, his voice suddenly sounding lower…and perhaps a bit slower as well. He felt his eyelids droop a bit and his fingers twitch against the board he lay upon. "I'm the Intersssecttt?"

"You are the Intersect. And have been for the last five years."

"Why…do you…come to mmme…now?" Marcus struggled to get out. His energy was dwindling quickly.

"We lost you. Somehow the tracker was disabled. You moved out west without us knowing where you went to…like any normal human man would do, you moved on. You came here to San Francisco and started working at the university, teaching…"

"Mathem-matics," Marcus whispered with a warbled voice. He felt ill.

"Wait, what's…what's going on here?" the IEL agent asked, quickly standing up and peering inside. "Marcus, what are you feeling right now?"

"Feelinnng?" Marcus asked. "Nnnothinng."

"Hellfire! Your gears aren't moving. I can't…" He ran his fingers through his messy brown hair. "I am not good at this. I don't know what to do about a broken machine like…like you. I should have paid more attention in my steamtech courses at the Factory," he began muttering to himself.

He watched as Prototype 534's head began to quiver. His unnaturally human eyes crossed, then twitched back and forth. He spoke in a slow monotone, quite unlike his usual voice.

"B-Bryce Larrrrkinn," he groaned as the agent's eyes widened and he bent closer to the automaton. "Agennt in Herrr Majestyyy's servicce, Immmperialll Espionage Leeeague. Recruited in 1884 frommm Her Majesty's Airforce Academy. Bornn in Los Angelesss. Parents unnnknown. 1888—killed Japannnese terrori—" But the rest died on his tongue as his eyes cleared and he shook his head. "W-What is this? What amm I sayinnng?" he asked, licking his lips to no consequence.

"You are winding down fast, Marcus. We've got to get you to someone who can fix you."

"Wwwhat do you mmmean by…'winding downnn'?"

"It is like when a human being _dies_. But the…machine equivalent."

"I…amm…dyinnnng?"

"You are dying. I don't know why we couldn't find you faster. Your prototype was one of the first of its kind. It was not built to last longer than three years. It is a miracle you lasted five."

"But I—"

"Hush! I'm thinking." Agent Larkin began pacing, then he turned and watched the automaton with narrowed eyes. "I've got it. But we haven't much time to get you there. If I can't get you to Los Angeles in less than three days, you will break down. You will die, Marcus."

"And…" Marcus' throat constricted and he whizzed with a choppy whirl of gears. "…what of it?" His head fall back against the board forlornly. "What have I t-to live forrr? I ammm a damned muh-mm-machine."

"Whatever genius thought it would be witty to program you as a martyr can go rot in hell," Agent Larkin muttered, clasping the door on 534's chest shut and untying the automaton's hands and feet. "In all honesty, whether you live or die wouldn't even make me bat an eye if it weren't for the Intersect."

Larkin tucked himself under the automaton's arm and helped him walk to the table where he had left his umbrella and hat.

"Justtt take it out of mme when I d-die…or mmmalfunction, ratherr…" the morose machine mumbled.

"Cut the jabber, will ya? I'm gettin' chills listening to you slur like that." Larkin said. Then he poked at 534's stomach. "Why they decided to put so much extra fat there, I'll never know."

"That's a bit…rrrude, you know. I rrrealize I'mm…just a mmmmachine…to you, b-but…I sssstill have feelings. At least…I ammm programmed…w-with feelinnngs. And that…hurt themmm."

"Look, I _am _sorry. Just button up. We have to leave. Now."

"You nnnever…answered mmmy…questionnn. Why couldn't…you just t-t-take…the Intersssect…out of me whennn…I die?"

"Because that's not how it works. To safeguard our secrets, they programmed the Intersect to die along with whatever cell it resides in. You die, _it dies_. That is my last resort and I'd like to avoid that outcome if at all possible."

Together they rustled up their things and stepped out into the streets of San Francisco. They had a long journey to Los Angeles and time was running out—faster than either of them had any way of knowing.

* * *

**A/N: **I reiterate...Patience. Our favorite characters will make their appearances soon. Hold on!

For now, I hope Bryce and Marcus are at least a bit entertaining. And that I've got your attention with these first few chapters.

Hang on there, chaps and misses!

And thanks ever so for the reviews!


	4. Toy-Man Meets Machine-Man Exuberantly

**A/N: **Thank you for being patient, readers o' mine! I'm much obliged to you.

I hope I've still got your attention, but I have a feeling you might particularly enjoy this chapter. And it will only get better hereafter.

**Summary: **In 1776, George Washington declared himself King of the United States of America and began turning a new nation into the United States Empire: expanding to the west, amassing colonies and gaining power. Over one hundred years later, the government's secrets are at risk and a new way to keep them safe must be created. When those secrets are accidentally brought to inventor and toy maker Chuck Bartowski's doorstep, his future becomes uncertain as his life fills with adventures, hardships, and even a bit of romance.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own "Chuck". Or the term "Steampunk". But you can be sure I revel in the opportunity to combine both of those things and make something that is very much mine.

Enjoy!

* * *

It took only two days to reach Los Angeles on the railroad line that connected the two major Californian cities. With a few short stops overnight they arrived in the bustling City of Angels in less time than Bryce had predicted.

In that time, Marcus had unfortunately grown weaker. He stuttered badly, his shoulders hunched. And when he walked, his feet dragged slowly along the ground. Even his movements had become choppy and strained, and every so often Bryce would catch him twitching or shutting down completely for a spell, his head sagging onto his chest.

Many a cup of coffee had been spilled on his lap. Though he found the energy to joke about being waterproof, and was quickly rebuffed by his handler when he made the mistake of saying it too loudly.

Spies, Bryce assured him, were everywhere, looking for both of them. If the Intersect ended up in someone else's hands, the future of the empire would no longer exist.

On this particularly chilly autumn morning in 1896, fate found Bryce Larkin and former professor of mathematics Marcus Lane (Prototype 534) trudging along the sparsely populated streets.

"I have to remember where his workshop is, is all," Bryce muttered, mostly to himself, though he caught the dying automaton's attention.

"H-His. Worksssshop? Who…his?" he gasped slowly.

"An old friend of mine. He's the only person I know I can trust."

"I…E…L?"

"No. He's not a spy." Bryce chuckled to himself. "He'd never last a day as a spy, as brilliant as he is. He's not a crime fighter. He's not a _fighter_. He's a good man."

Marcus snorted.

"What?" the agent snapped.

"Yoouu…friennnd of…good mannn? Haaa…"

"Hey, I used to be a good man, too. We were best friends. I-I guess we still are. Would be. If I wasn't an agent. You already know this thanks to your government secrets infused machine brain, but I grew up in an orphanage down here. Chuck and I, and his sister Ellie when we could be bothered with her, would go on adventures." Bryce paused, remembering something a long time in the past, something that he would never forget. "He saved my life once. Trolley car was barreling down the tracks and I was so focused on the other side of the street that I didn't see it. He tackled me out of the way." He smiled to himself then shook his head. "He can help you. I know he can. He's a genius."

"You…sure?"

"Absolutely. He's an engineer. A mechanic. He builds things like you for fun."

"Comforting," Marcus gasped out. "Annnd the…Intersssect?"

A dark shadow fell over Bryce's face as he mulled that over. "I'm hoping he never finds out about it. I'm hoping his chatty sidekick can keep his mouth shut, as well."

The automaton let out what sounded like a painful snort of laughter, then almost lost its footing. Bryce caught it and hoisted its arm over his shoulder again. "Come on, then. Almost there. Chuck will know how to fix you up."

}o{

A hodge-podge mixture of vehicles moved past them, some pulled by horses, others puttering along and spewing steam, the vehicle of the future many said. But Bryce knew it was a flash in the pan, nothing more.

The air was thick with the soot that billowed out of the factories surrounding the area, and the streets were caked with grime and mud from the days of rain. The sun beamed down on their backs, causing Bryce to sweat heavily beneath his coat and hat, and the stuffy air was doing very little to help.

He could really use a drink, but he knew he'd have to wait. Business first. Drowning later.

"That's it." He paused, squinting his eyes. "At least, it might be. I hope so."

The street ended in a cul-de-sac, and at the end was a good-sized store with mechanical appliances, clocks, and wind-up toys in the window, behind which Bryce knew his childhood friend's workshop resided. At least, the last time Bryce had seen Chuck, this had all belonged to him. Any number of things could have happened since their last meeting.

Chuck Bartowski was the most brilliant person Bryce had ever known, but he stubbornly refused to set his goals higher than owning a knick-knack and toy shop. He loved playing with toys and fiddling with gears and other mechanical things. When it came to getting a real job at a mechanical company, somewhere like the manufacturing corporations located in New York and London where he would be putting his talents to real use, Chuck Bartowski shied away. It was either a lack of self-confidence, or perhaps even a lack of desire. He was fantastic at running the shop, building the merchandise, and he was great with people. A social butterfly, as it were. It all came naturally to the inventor, and he insisted he was good here whenever Bryce, and Ellie on occasion, questioned him.

Bryce half-carried Marcus around the side of the shop and into the small alleyway that led to the back door. He stopped for a moment. One of two things would happen. Either he would burst through the door and be met with the giant grin of the only person he had ever counted as a true friend, or Chuck was long gone and he would have to worm himself out of an awkward situation.

Bracing himself, he turned the handle and swung the door open. The agent and the Intersect were hit by a gust of steam that clung to their hair and faces, dampening their coats.

When the steam cleared, they were met with the sight of a tall, gangly young man with dark curly hair and brass goggles lowered over his eyes.

He stopped what he was doing and turned.

And then his mouth fell open in surprise, his cheeks pudgy from the goggles. His gloved hands dropped to his sides limply. "I am not sure you are aware, but we have a front door."

"Oh, I'm aware," Bryce called over the hissing machinery behind Chuck. The inventor's mouth twisted into a bit of a smile and he pushed the lever to shut down the machine. A clattering of gears and spouts gurgling with steam filled the room as the machine shuddered with a metallic din. When the cacophony ended and the steam cleared, the man moved closer.

"Bryce? Bryce Larkin?"

"Hallo, Chuck."

"Bryce! What? What are—What are you doing here?" He lifted the goggles from his eyes and left them at his forehead, wiping his sleeve across his face and pulling his gloves off.

Bryce allowed himself to be hugged and thumped Chuck on the back once with a closed fist. "I need your help. We can talk later."

"Uh, right! Yes. What can I do you for?" The gleeful smile had yet to leave his features, completely oblivious to the trouble his old friend was about to pull him into.

"Well…I need your…mechanical expertise."

"A watch! You need a watch. Am I spot on or what? Because you have yet another lady friend who is mad at you for not being on time for your romantic rendezvous. You are a cad." He turned to Marcus, ignoring the degrading state his figure was in. "He is a _cad_."

"No, not a watch—"

"An eyeglass? Or I can make you a gizmo. Free of charge. Well, maybe not free of charge. We have been rather drowning in d—"

"Chuck! Man! Listen to me!"

Chuck shut his mouth and shoved his hands in his apron pockets.

"I'd like to introduce you to Professor Marcus Lane, otherwise known as Prototype 534. Marcus, Chuck. Chuck, Marcus."

"Professor…er…Prototype," Chuck awkwardly said, reaching out to shake Marcus' hand. But Marcus didn't have the strength to raise his hand as he leant heavily against Bryce's side, almost slumping to the ground.

Chuck hurried forward to help Bryce catch the older gentleman and together they moved him to a nearby table. "Uh, let me…" He stepped away from the pair and shoved a dingy pile of gadgetry and tools and blueprints off to the side so that they could lay the man down. "Too much to drink, then? And at this hour? Ballsy," Chuck said sardonically.

"No, it's not that at all. He would rust if he drank."

Marcus turned to Bryce with wide eyes. "That explainnnns a lot," he murmured.

Bryce rolled his eyes and turned to Chuck. "Can you fix him?"

"Uh…I'm not a doctor, buddy. But Ellie—"

"I don't need a doctor, Chuck! I need an engineer. I need an inventor. A mechanics expert."

"I can't help you unless the man runs on a clock," Chuck joked with a goofy smirk.

There was silence as Bryce stared at him with a blank face. Chuck looked at Marcus, whose chest was heaving in an incredibly choppy fashion. Then he looked back to Bryce. "Wait, hold on—"

"Chuck, I told you. Prototype 534. He's an automaton. And he's breaking. I need him fixed."

Chuck laughed nervously. "You were always a jokester, Bryce. Ha! Ha ha! Aha."

"I'm deadly serious this time, Chuck. And I need him fixed. I need him to be fully functional, at least until I can get him back to where he belongs." Bryce reached out and grabbed Chuck by the collar of his work shirt. "Can I trust you to fix him, Chuck?"

"I-I-I, uh-I…yes? But…he's a human being. I can't…" He sighed and hung his head. "I'm not a person doctor, Bryce! I fix clocks and toys and—" His own brain interrupted his words as he stepped forward and looked at the almost unconscious professor.

"You aren't listening! He's not a human being, Chuck. He's an automaton."

Chuck stared closely at Marcus, who stared back with drooping eyelids. "I've built some automatons in my day, and pretty good ones to boot—but never anything like…" Chuck moved even closer. He whispered in wonder, "You're a machine."

"I…am." Marcus' words came out in puffs of steam. He was winding down fast.

Chuck's eyes flicked back to Bryce.

Realizing he would have to prove it, the agent walked to the automaton and opened his coat, vest, and shirt again.

When he clicked open the hatch that covered 534's inner-workings, Chuck stepped up beside him and peered down into the machine. "He's a—I—but he—"

Chuck's eyes widened significantly, and his lips slowly stretched until there was a nose-wrinkling grin of wonder on his face. "This is quite possibly the most fantastic thing that has ever happened to me in my entire life!"

As he rambled excitedly, rolling his sleeves up and gathering his tools, Bryce couldn't decide if bringing the government's best kept secret to his best friend's doorstep was a good idea after all.

He heard a loud, overly exuberant exclamation of awe from the table.

"His heart is a clock, Bryce!"

This would be a long night.

* * *

**A/N: **Thanks so much to **dispatchesfromdistrict7 **for doing an awesome beta job way in the beginning stages of my writing this story. She gave me great ideas and helped me fix problems with the plot and ramble to her about character analysis. And she has just been a trooper. Thanks so so so much, friend! You're the tops!

Now that Chuck has made his exuberant appearance, I hope a few of you can breathe again. It will only get better. (wink!)

Review, my friends! I'd love to hear from you!


	5. Sarcasm Is the Lowest Form of Wit

**A/N: **Another installment of _Chuck Versus the Steampunk Chronicles_. More people seem to be joining the steampunky party now that Chuck's joined the cast. I'm very glad! I hope I can retain your attention! And keep you entertained. From here on out.

**Summary: **In 1776, George Washington declared himself King of the United States of America and began turning a new nation into the United States Empire: expanding to the west, amassing colonies and gaining power. Over one hundred years later, the government's secrets are at risk and a new way to keep them safe must be created. When those secrets are accidentally brought to inventor and toy maker Chuck Bartowski's doorstep, his future becomes uncertain as his life fills with adventures, hardships, and even a bit of romance.

Some of you have had very nice things to say, and I cannot express how much I appreciate that. Thanks! Also, I should apologize for the longer wait. I spent a week in San Diego for Comic Con and Nerd HQ. It was gooooood. So, so good. Hope this chapter makes up for the wait!

Without further ado...the disclaimer!

**Disclaimer:** "Chuck" is not mine. Its characters are not mine. Though they might as well be, considering how often I think about them.

Now...step into my world of steampunkness... (waves hand cryptically and bounces a crooked eyebrow)

* * *

Charles Irving Bartowski stood in the furthest most recesses of his workshop, staring woodenly at the most humanistic automaton he had ever seen in his entire life.

He had since shut the automaton down, hours before, promising Bryce he would do all he could to fix whatever was wrong with it.

Chuck felt like kicking himself. He had been so shocked, sitting at his desk in an attempt to regain his senses after fainting, that he had neglected to ask Bryce some of the thousands of questions that now bounced about in his brain. So many questions.

Questions such as: Where in damned hell did he get an automaton? How did human hands make such a lifelike automaton? Why did Bryce think _Chuck_ of all people could fix it when the toymaker hadn't seen anything like this ever in his twenty six years? Where would he even _start _trying to fix it?

But he had made a promise.

And he would stick to his promise. If he could fix this thing…Well, he would do his damnedest, at the very least. Bryce seemed rather desperate.

He stepped up to the machine man, staring at the gears inside of him, inspecting, moving aside cogs and bolts and attempting to figure out how it was constructed.

As he tinkered and fidgeted with the machine's insides, he heard the door to the back rooms open with a loud, grating creak.

"Chuck, I found a—" Chuck looked up from the automaton on the table and sighed in annoyance and frustration.

When the voice didn't continue, the toymaker rolled his eyes and looked over his shoulder at the short android moving through the opened door. Its round glass eyes, brown in color, blinked blankly and it opened its mouth to speak but seemed at a loss for words. "Yes, I know. I am working too late. It is not good for my health, so says Ellie. And Ellie would know," Chuck said patiently, trying not to be upset with a machine.

"What is that?" the android asked, moving a step closer. He raised his iron arm to his head and removed his bowler cap, revealing a bald metallic head with two small bolts protruding from it on each side. "I mean _who_. No, I mean _what_. What do I mean?"

"It's a who-what, I suppose."

"Like me?"

"A bit more intricate than you, I'm afraid."

The android scratched his head, despite there really being no need for it since it had no itch to scratch. Then it set the brown bowler back on its head and crossed its mechanical arms with a sardonic frown. At least, it would have been a sardonic frown if its lips weren't horizontal strips of brass that could only move up and down. "That's not possible."

"I didn't think so either, but apparently it is _very _possible. In fact, the evidence is right here in front of us." Chuck spread his arms to gesture to the entire length of the powered down automaton's figure.

The android blinked a few times, slowly, eyeing the other machine critically, closely. A brass finger moved up to its chin and it thoughtfully tapped it a few times, accompanied by tinny clangs as metal met metal. "Where did he-it come from?" Then the machine turned back to Chuck. "Did you find it? Have you been going through Mister Reardon's garbage bins again, Chuck? Remember he almost sent the patrol after you."

"That was one ti—No! I haven't. Bryce brought him in."

"That is odd." The frown deepened dubiously. "Very odd. Well, I am at your service. Might I help in any way?"

"Maybe. Bring me a wrench, Morgan."

"I am not a nurse, Chuck."

"The wrench."

With a hum that sounded somewhat like a sigh, the android walked to the nearby table and retrieved the wrench, bringing it back to the inventor. "Is this a wrench?"

"Very amusing, Morgan," Chuck replied sarcastically, setting to work.

"I have never seen anything like this."

"Of course you haven't. I built you twelve years ago and since then you've barely left the workshop."

"I _have_ left the workshop. But you make me wear a suit and it is itchy."

"Morgan, you don't have itches."

"This is not a fair assessment. I am perfectly capable of having itches."

"Alright, buddy, believe what you will, but do it silently and let me concentrate," Chuck mumbled, shaking his head.

"What I am _not_ capable of having is a bad hair day, and today it seems to be your specialty."

Chuck slowly looked up from the automaton laid out on the table and glowered down at his best friend. "I will never know how you ended up with so much sarcasm."

"I believe I have learned it. It was acquired. Years of study. I am also quite exuberant at times. Positivity! But today I seem to be more droll than anything. That is odd. Do you think perhaps I am acquiring moods? Is that possible, Chuck?"

"Will you just put that metallic brain of yours to work and attempt to help me come up with something to fix this damned thing?"

"I do not think he can be fixed," came Morgan's low answer. Chuck glared at it in frustration. "I only say this because I thought you wanted my professional opinion on the matter."

"Thank you, Morgan," he ground out flatly. He set his gaze back to the machine, feeling a bit of a headache coming on. "Well, I have to try. Even if it takes all night, I have to try."

"You are on your own. I am due for charge."

"Fine. Abandon me," Chuck called after the android as it moved towards the back room where itsplugs were located.

Chuck heaved a sigh of frustration and rubbed his face, unknowingly smudging the grease ever more upon his cheek. "Bryce, you couldn't just bring me a clock or something," he grumbled to himself.

He worked on through the night and into the early morning hours, so that by the time his pocket watch read nearly seven in the morning, he felt every last drop of his energy had been drained from him.

No matter what he attempted, Prototype 534 was dead. When he activated the automaton's main switch, it merely blinked a few times and went still again. He removed and cleaned most of the parts. At one point, he even found a loose cog inside of the clock that acted as the automaton's heart. He was sure this was the problem and fixed it, but nothing happened, and he sank into a hopeless mope once again.

Reaching in with his screwdriver, Chuck turned the small device just beneath Marcus' neck, activating the machine. The automaton whirred back to life and blinked a few times at him, this time moving its head back and forth.

A wide grin grew on Chuck's handsome face and he laughed a bit incredulously. "Ha! I did it!" The grin died down. "I think—I think I did it. Excuse me, uh…um…Prototype? Uh, Professor?" He poked the fleshy face. "Sir?"

The eyes snapped fully open as the gears cranked quickly and silently in his chest. They were empty and emotionless grey eyes and the mouth creaked open, the human lips moving.

"Are you trying to say something?" Chuck asked quietly, leaning closer to the machine man to hear the light whispers coming from between its lips.

Suddenly its hand surged up from the table and grabbed onto Chuck's neck, gripping with a powerful mechanical strength and pulling his head closer. Chuck whimpered, grasping onto its wrist in an ineffectual attempt to free himself from the machine's painful hold.

"Open," it said in a toneless voice. "Open the face. Secrets harbored…within the face."

"Alright, alright, just don't—ack—" The hand squeezed, beginning to cut off Chuck's circulation. So he quickly reached up to blindly feel for some sort of trigger that would open the face. Behind the ear was a small switch, which he flicked with the back of his finger. The machine let go of his neck and he gasped for air, rubbing his skin and swallowing a few times. The face popped off and Chuck pushed it out of the way, revealing an incredibly complex array of gears and cogs that snapped and spun. In the midst of it all was a glowing blue cube about the size of a pocket watch, pulsing almost like a living heart might beat.

The inventor's natural inclination for curiosity overcame him, and he reached out to put a finger against its blue surface. It was very warm to the touch, but not hot enough to burn. He pulled away anyways, surprised by how smooth it had felt. "What are you?" he mumbled under his breath. He stood up straight again to go pull Morgan out of his charge to ask his advice, but a thought stopped him.

This device was most likely the most important piece of this highly sophisticated machine. If he could somehow extract it from the head, he could perhaps study it, and maybe someday even replicate it.

Then Morgan might be more like—he frowned deeply—more like the Morgan he remembered.

On top of that, the fortune he could potentially make would be limitless. He cursed himself as he remembered this was Bryce's automaton. How he managed to obtain it, the heavens above knew. And that was none of Chuck's business, anyways.

Nevertheless, he would try to extract it, and maybe he would find that the problem lie within the blue cube.

He set his pliers to the cube very slowly and carefully and tugged, attempting to fight away his deep fatigue. It was a simple matter to loose one end, and then the other. So simple, in fact, that he hadn't expected it, and had pulled too hard. The cube flew from the pliers and up into the air.

"No!" With an impressive show of reflexes, Chuck spun and snatched the cube from the air before it could fall onto the wooden floor beneath it and perhaps shatter. Chuck had no way of knowing what material the thing was made of, whether it would break or not if it was dropped.

Luckily he had saved himself the disaster of finding out.

He sighed, relieved, and moved to put the cube back into the machine. He would play it safe this time and perhaps leave the unknown alone before he _really _broke Bryce's machine.

But then he started feeling a current of some sort running from his hands and up his arms. It crawled through his shoulders, up his neck and burst into his brain.

A blinding pain seared through his head and he cried out, dropping the blue cube to the ground and collapsing in a heap at the base of his work table, oblivious to the world around him as he finally lost consciousness.

* * *

**A/N: **I've gotten a few anonymous complaints about the length of the chapters. It is what it is, you guys. I'd only confuse myself if I slapped chapters together to make them longer for you. And I'd feel harried and regretful. So I'd rather just leave them as is. Thanks for understanding, those of you who understand.

Let me know what you think! Leave me a review!

Or I'll send sarcastic Morgan after you to sarcasm you into oblivion. Wot? Ha!


	6. It Is a What WhoBut How?

**A/N: **Welcome back to the SteamVerse, my friends and readers extraordinaire. You're all magic. Thank you for your kindness, and thank you for sticking with this steampunk tomfoolery I've been dishing out for your enjoyment. It's gone over rather well, so far, wouldn't you say?

Stick in there. Each chapter gets closer to what I'm sure you're all waiting for. (And very patiently, I might add, which I certainly appreciate!)

**Summary: **In 1776, George Washington declared himself King of the United States of America and began turning a new nation into the United States Empire: expanding to the west, amassing colonies and gaining power. Over one hundred years later, the government's secrets are at risk and a new way to keep them safe must be created. When those secrets are accidentally brought to inventor and toy maker Chuck Bartowski's doorstep, his future becomes uncertain as his life fills with adventures, hardships, and even a bit of romance.

**Disclaimer:** "Chuck" is not mine. Its characters are not mine. Though they might as well be, considering how often I think about them.

Is everybody wearing their adventure caps? No? Well, by jove! What are you waiting for?

* * *

There was a metallic taste in his mouth when Bryce Larkin came to and rolled over, his ribs aching and his eyes seemingly sealed shut. He swiped a dirty coat sleeve over his eyes and blinked them open, pushing himself to sit up with a groan.

Bryce ran a grimey hand through his hair and spat onto the ground. The inside of his lip was caked with dried blood and he was pretty sure he had a massive bruise on his jaw. But this was not an entirely new experience for the spy.

He counted himself lucky he could feel all of his teeth still in place.

He groggily pushed himself to his feet and leaned against the alley wall for a moment before bending down to right a garbage bin he had a vague memory of knocking over during the bar fight.

Some bastard had thought it would be funny to call him a pretty boy, then tried to spill his drink over his head. The fellow had ended up flat on his back in the blink of an eye, but in his drunken state, Bryce had miscalculated the amount of friends his attacker might have.

He ended up unconscious in the alleyway after being pushed into a garbage bin and kicked in the ribs. The whiskey may have helped in that respect, numbing him to the pain. But then that had been the point of drinking it in the first place.

With a long sigh, he straightened his vest, buttoned his suit jacket over it, and ran his hands down his front to rid it of excess bread crumbs and other foreign substances he forced himself not to care too much about.

Agent Larkin left the alleyway, smoothing his hair back, wiping his lip on his handkerchief, effectively hiding the evidence of his nighttime activities before strolling down the street. He wished he could find his hat, but he figured he had lost it the night before, or left it at the bar which was now closed until later that night.

Bryce didn't have the time to wait. He had to make his way back to the Buy More. If Chuck could not fix Prototype 534, the last few years of Bryce's career would be for naught—and the empire would lose its most precious secrets. Which, he supposed, was much better than having it get into the hands of an enemy of the empire. An enemy of the world.

When he arrived at Chuck's workshop early the next morning, he found the back door locked. With a shrug, he reached into his inner coat pocket and produced his lock pick, easily granting himself access.

He knew this time to expect the blast of steam in his face from whatever machinery Chuck happened to be fiddling with, and was shocked again when there was nothing but a faint click, followed by a distinct whirring sound.

"Ah, Bryce. It is good you are here. Right on time. An unusual occurance," came a cheerful voice from the other room. A familiar android stepped into the workshop and gave him what might have been a smile if the thing's lips moved that way. "It has been awhile. You look like you slept in a pile of garbage and although I have not been installed with that particular sense, I assume you most likely smell like spoilt cabbage and perhaps sour milk. Though, as I said before, I cannot say for sure. Perhaps more of a rotten fruit smell. We shall have to ask Chuck when he awakes. To smell you, I mean. I am curious."

"Uh, yes. Absolutely, we will have Chuck…smell me." Bryce had almost forgotten how incredibly strange it was that Chuck's closest friend was a machine he had built himself when he was a a youth. It was a bit disquieting, given the reason behind it. And, he had to admit, sad. "How are you, Morgan?" It was difficult to imagine the android as much more than what it was—but the way Chuck programmed Morgan, and the unsettling human characteristics he displayed sometimes left Bryce feeling nervous in the machine's presence.

"I just charged. I'm feeling refreshed." There was a bit of a tone to his voice, something akin to dislike. As impossible as it was for the android to have feelings…

"Good, good. Erm, where's Chuck? Did he fix my automaton?"

"He is sleeping. As I just said. And no."

"He didn't fix it?" Bryce threw his hands up and turned away, beginning to pace. "He promised me he would fix it."

"He tried. I looked at it, as well."

Bryce stopped pacing and narrowed his eyes. "What would you know about automatons?"

"Pardon me, but I happen to be one. I would say that makes me an expert."

"No, Marcus is as human as a machine can get. You've got a ways yet 'til you become human."

A puff of steam came up from the suit jacket Morgan wore over his brass torso, and he seemed to almost roll his eyes. "Humanhood is overrated."

Bryce ignored him and walked past him. "Well, where is Chuck?"

"I found him asleep on the ground when I finished charging and I put him in the cot in the back room." Morgan followed Bryce into the back room where Chuck was unconscious on the small cot that was hardly big enough for his height. His booted feet dangled a bit off the end.

Bryce leaned down and shook him. "Chuck, come on. Wake up."

Chuck groaned and blinked an eye open before the other followed. "Ow."

"What, ow? I thought you said you would fix Marcus. Were you drinking?" Bryce said, unsurprisingly ignoring the hypocrisy of his statement.

Pain and disappointment clouded the young inventor's features as he sat up. "I did my best. Worked all night. The problem is…Well, it is way over my head. Where did you get the thing, anyways?"

"I found him."

Chuck looked dubious. "…Right. Well, I cleaned out everything, put it back, and even replaced some of the gears in the clock…heart…area place. I'm sorry, Bryce. I did all I could."

"So that's it, then? Did he say anything? Or…or do anything? Or is he just…dead?" Bryce felt a pit open in his gut. So many years, so much trouble, and all for naught.

"No, there was nothing. He's done," Chuck answered, quietly. He blinked a few times and shook his head. "I'm very sorry, Bryce."

Bryce sighed and shrugged. "Well, not much anybody could have done I guess. Thanks for trying, my friend." Attempting to push back the dismay he felt, the blanket of disappointment threatening to overcome him, Bryce Larkin reached out and shook Chuck's hand. It wasn't his old friend's fault.

"I must be going, though," he added.

"Already? You can't even stay for dinner tonight? Ellie would love to see you again. And I think you would get along really well with her husband, Devon. He is…exuberant." He chuckled and Bryce knew he should feel some sort of ache, or loneliness. And maybe he did deep down. But he had been away from this life for too long, and he wasn't keen on anything that might elicit those feelings inside of him again.

"I'm sorry, old friend. But I must away. Thank you for your hospitality. And for losing a night's sleep agonizing over my automaton. It was swell of you."

"But…Well…" Chuck sighed then, obviously resigned. "Want me to get rid of, uh, Marcus, was it? Prototype…"

"534. No. That's alright. I've got a fellow who can use it. Thanks." Bryce turned and walked towards the door. "Did you—I mean, where is he?"

"Where he's always been." Chuck stood up and almost toppled but Morgan's arm automatically reached out and righted him. "Thanks, buddy."

"You are welcome."

"Follow me," he said to Bryce, leading him out of the hallway and into the back workshop where the automaton lay, unmoving…dead. "Quite a piece of machinery, though. I wish I knew how they did it, whoever it was that built it—him, I guess. God, it's just so human. I feel like I need to do him some sort of service by addressing him as Marcus now that he's…dead…instead of as the machine he was."

"So do I," Bryce said, looking a bit dejectedly at what might have secured him a higher rank at the IEL. A position where he could choose his own assignments and not have to cater to men who sat behind desks, out of harm's way.

"Well, Chuck…" He outstretched his hand again. "It was good seeing ya again."

"It was." Chuck shook his hand, squeezing it in a friendly fashion. "If you ever need something fixed that's a bit more in my skill set—Say, like a pocket watch or a wind-up toy—I'm your man."

Bryce smirked. "I'll keep you in mind, brother. Tell Ellie Girl I say hello."

"Of course I will. And uh…well, I suppose…good luck?" His friendly smile lost a little luster as his eyebrows raised a bit sadly.

"You too, Chuck."

He walked to the automaton and pulled the sheet off of it. He missed Chuck's confused glance at the machine, now that the face was latched back into place, as well as the chest. Bryce also missed the suspicious glance Chuck sent Morgan's way, but the android was staring at the door, as he was wont to do if he idle.

Bryce hoisted the automaton onto his shoulder and walked out with it. Chuck helped his friend shove it into the back of the wagon he had bought the night before, then waved as Bryce rode down the dirt road towards the main street.

}o{

It took a week for Bryce to get back to the Imperial Espionage League headquarters in Langley, Virginia. His superiors had taken Marcus and handed him over to their engineers and scientists, seeming to believe him when he told them he had found the automaton already dead. Bryce had plenty of time to think during his journey across the country, and the one constant thought in his mind was to keep Chuck Bartowski out of the clutches of the IEL.

With his technical know-how, Chuck could potentially be the perfect candidate for the IEL Factory where Bryce had been trained almost ten years earlier. Chuck was Bryce's one friend in the world—and the agent would do all he could to keep him out of the dark abyss that was the spy life...that dangerous slope that led down the path he was walking now.

Upon Agent Larkin's return, he was granted a meeting with Director Graham, his superior. The analysts and engineers immediately took Prototype 534 from his clutches and locked themselves away in their laboratory to test the machine, and perhaps attempt to retrieve the Intersect after all.

Two days passed and Bryce received no word on whether they had been able to extract the Intersect from the automaton's head. Even more puzzling was the fact that he had not been assigned a new mission as of yet. As one of the most prolifically used agents, and one of Graham's favorites, he rarely went an entire day after completing a mission that another wasn't lined up.

Agent Larkin liked it that way. When he was working, he wasn't idle. And it was when he was idle that he ran into trouble. The constant movement kept him alive. Though a part of him wondered if he was killing himself at the same time. The ache in his bones some nights, the pain in his chest when he breathed after a chase. The blurriness of his eyesight that plagued him every so often. All things he had been hiding from his superiors and peers. He couldn't stop.

They couldn't make him stop.

On this particular day, Bryce Larkin wandered the halls of Langley headquarters, bored out of his mind, worrying in spite of himself, but mostly curious about the analysts' findings with 534. He glanced left and right down each end of the hallway and knew he was alone, so he ducked into the nearest room and shut the door behind him.

He knew one of the analysts from way back in candidate school, and he knew he could get her to talk about Prototype 534. If only enough to give him a small amount of intel. He had spent so long looking for the Intersect. And now they were purposefully shutting him out. He _had_ to know if he had completely bungled the entire operation by trusting Chuck Bartowski with something so incredibly valuable—dangerous, even.

As he approached the lab, he smoothed his hair back from his forehead and straightened his maroon silk vest beneath the black suit jacket he wore.

Suddenly he heard a muffled whirring sound. It was getting louder and louder, as if whatever was making the sound was getting closer. Then he heard the clang of metal, like footsteps almost. Bryce looked up and saw the shadow of an approaching android from around the corner. He quickly opened the nearest door and stepped inside to shut it behind him as silently as possible.

Listening at the door as the android walked by, the IEL agent glanced around the room he had hidden himself in.

He had never been inside of it before, but then…that wasn't all that surprising, was it? Agent Larkin spent almost no time at headquarters and when he did, it was in Director Langston Graham's office getting his next mission.

There were pipes twisting from the ground and up into the ceiling. Steam spouted from the fittings with a soft hiss.

Bryce reacted immediately when he heard approaching voices, diving behind the nearby boiler and bracing himself as close to it as he could get without touching the hot metal casing.

He heard more than one person's footfalls, followed by the rumble of multiple voices. He could just make out what they were saying as they stopped nearby. "The cube was empty."

"Empty? You mean the Intersect was lost when 534 broke down."

"No. It was emptied before that. The Intersect has been transferred. It's not lost. We just have to find out what—or who—has it now."

"Do you believe it possible? For a human?"

"If so, I cannot tell if I am envious or if I pity the poor soul."

The voices drifted away again as they passed through the boiler room into the next laboratory.

Bryce sat back on his haunches and frowned. Marcus had somehow transferred the Intersect. But how? To whom?

A cold chill wracked his form as he remembered the way he had found his friend that morning a week before; half-dead, covered in sweat, pale, and altogether lacking in alertness.

The Intersect was no longer a what. It was a who.

It was Chuck.

* * *

**A/N: **I thought I owed you lovelies a sooner update this time. I made you wait too long for the last chapter. Hope you enjoyed this one!

We're diving deeper into the steampunk universe. Hope I've captured at least a few of you.

'Til next we meet again!

(doffs hat and disappears in a purple poof of smoke)


	7. Of Coalitions and Assistants! and Tea

**A/N: **HEAR YE, HEAR YE. Another chapter!

Indeed, things are getting deeper. The world is expanding. Not ours so much, but definitely this steampunky one. And more people are coming into the fray.

Thank you to everyone who has had kind words so far! You're all lovely. And I cannot express enough thanks. I really can't. And thanks again for your patience. It will hopefully be worth it.

**Summary: **In 1776, George Washington declared himself King of the United States of America and began turning a new nation into the United States Empire: expanding to the west, amassing colonies and gaining power. Over one hundred years later, the government's secrets are at risk and a new way to keep them safe must be created. When those secrets are accidentally brought to inventor and toy maker Chuck Bartowski's doorstep, his future becomes uncertain as his life fills with adventures, hardships, and even a bit of romance.

**Disclaimer:** "Chuck" is not mine. Its characters are not mine. Though they might as well be, considering how often I think about them.

Heeere weee goooooooo!

* * *

Chuck had a splitting headache for two days straight after the debacle with Bryce Larkin and his frighteningly human automaton. But once it had gone away and he had gotten back to work, he felt somehow heavier. As though some invisible weight existed in even the smallest movements. As though someone was pushing down on his body with constant pressure. It was light but still there. And wholly unsettling, to say the least.

A week after the incident with Prototype 534, Chuck entered the Buy More and greeted the pint-sized youth that was admiring a toy boat with a crank-operated system. The boy looked up at him from beneath the brim of his newsboy and looked away shyly. Chuck continued into his workshop after nodding at Morgan who stood steadfast behind the counter, alert eyes sweeping over the customers critically.

Chuck's workshop was tucked behind the store where he sold his inventions, toys, tools, and other knick-knacks. He had given the shop a conveniently vague name when he first opened its doors six years before, when he was still working for his engineering degree in university.

The Buy More opened in the morning after breakfast and closed just before supper. That gave Chuck plenty of time to close up shop and get Morgan fitted for a check-up and a charge.

Chuck Bartowski was not unaware of the strangeness of his situation when it came to Morgan. It was just that he had never been incredibly worried about what his neighbors thought, or his sister's acquaintances. Or his brother-in-law's family, come to think of it.

His best friend was an android that he had to charge and repair every few days or so. Their relationship was strong, despite one half of the pair being built from brass and springs and cogs, and all who knew Chuck well had to admit he could have no better guardian than the protective Morgan.

Chuck's sister, Eleanor, was three years his elder, and was Morgan's only rival for the inventor's affection. The Bartowskis had grown up together, side by side, in the orphanage that lay in the outskirts of Los Angeles proper. As the headmistress told the story, she had found two children playing without supervision in a nearby park. The parents were nowhere to be found, so she gathered them up and kept them in the orphanage until she could contact a guardian. She searched for an entire year for anyone with the name Bartowski while Chuck and Eleanor lived under the roof of the orphanage, even reaching out to nearby towns and cities. Chuck and Ellie were raised in the orphanage thereafter, until Ellie went to a women's boarding college that specialized in nurse training when she was seventeen. And Chuck went to engineering school two years later, at sixteen years old.

The inventor grinned to himself as he pondered the strange relationship between Morgan and Ellie. They were rivals in some ways, but Morgan seemed to be as in love as an android could be when the dark-haired nurse was present. It was one of those inexplicable and mystifying things, that real Morgan's adoration for Ellie seemed to be transferred into his namesake. The android's metallic features somehow softened and he removed his hat. Or he would stand in the corner and just stare until she left, almost as though he were shy.

Of course, it was impossible. Morgan was just a machine. It was too easy to forget at times. And as brilliant as Morgan was, he was not able to help Chuck with his present predicament. As it was a physical one—or at least, mental—he knew Ellie and her husband, Devon, would be the best people to talk to. They were both doctors, or at least, Ellie was well on her way to joining her husband as a doctor. That was if the Los Angeles branch of the Coalition for Women Doctors were successful in their ongoing fight. It had worked in Boston and New York, so far, and Chuck was hopeful Los Angeles and San Francisco would soon follow.

But with or without her official license as a doctor, she knew more about the human brain than anyone Chuck had ever met. And he had been having nightmares, vivid nightmares, both at night and during the day when he was wide awake. Even as a child, when his mind was rampant with imaginative ideas, he had never experienced nightmares that affected him physically, like those he had been having recently.

Giant war machines rolling over cottages as though they were ant hills, smoke pouring from cities, flames enveloping buildings with people trapped inside, wars that had happened centuries before, men being followed into dark alleys before they're quickly disposed of with a swipe of a knife.

Those were the images that would wake him up at night—covered in sweat and with an aching head. It was miserable.

During the day, though, it was different. Just this morning, for instance, the policeman who paroled the nearby main street had wandered in to look at toys for his son's birthday. When Chuck turned to greet him, a wave of dizziness overcame him, almost like a dam had broken and his head filled with water. Images flashed across his vision, as though he was sitting in front of a slideshow and the photographs were changing faster than he could focus on them. And just like that, he knew Officer Geralds had been in the force for fifteen years, had an incident with a thief in which the thief had ended up dead, and that he had a wife who was secretly a member of the underground anti-monarch group, _Women for Equality_.

The rest of the visit was strained and uncomfortable, despite Chuck being sure he was imagining it all.

Perhaps it was a matter of not sleeping enough, or maybe he was getting sick.

Either way, he knew Ellie and Devon might be able to help.

So that night, he rode his puttering motorbike home, leaving a trail of steam in his wake. After he'd left engineering school halfway through to open his own shop, his brother-in-law secured him a few rooms on the second floor of the large house where he lived with Chuck's sister, residing on the corner across from a small park and next to Jennings Clocks & Watches on the other side.

Instead of taking the stairs to his own floor, as he usually did, Chuck knocked on the door of the Woodcomb residence.

Doctor Devon Woodcomb answered the door with a wide grin that made him look rather ridiculous. "Brother!" His strong arms enveloped Chuck in a tight hug and for a moment, he was afraid the muscled doctor would ruffle his already mussed hair with his fist.

"Devon…how are you?" Chuck wheezed, sighing in relief when he was released. "Am I interrupting anything? I just wanted to speak with you and Ellie, if you have the time."

"What do I always say, Chuck?" the man asked, giving the younger man a critical eye.

"There's always time for family," Chuck intoned along with Devon's more exuberant exclamation. "Exactly!" Devon tacked on afterward. "Come in, Chuck. I think El just put a kettle on."

He opened the door wide and walked away from it, allowing Chuck to make himself at home, shut the door, and kick off his boots. He doffed his coat, hung it on the hook in the entryway, and strolled down the long hall towards the living room.

Ellie was standing near the door jamb, hunched over as she inspected the knot in her nurse's apron. She looked up and smiled affectionately, dropping the knot and going to her brother. "Charles Irving, I feel like I haven't seen you in days!"

"That might be because you haven't seen me in days," he teased, feeling that surge of affection he always experienced when his sister and guardian for most of his life grinned at him like that.

They hugged and she pulled away again. "Devon, will you pour Chuck some tea? He looks tired." She paused and squinted at him. "You smell like that damnable machine you built, that bicycle with the engine."

"My steamcycle, El. It doesn't smell like gas! I use steam! Hence the _steam_ part of the name."

"Well, it smells. And now _you _smell." She frowned. "And it's not healthy to be going around on things like that. You look like death. Probably because it rattles your brain around inside of your head, it's such a piece of junk."

"Ellie, don't make fun of my steamcycle! Devon, tell her to leave my steamcycle alone."

"Sweetheart," came Devon's calm, yet booming voice. It was strange how he did that. "Don't take your frustrations about today out on your brother's toys."

Chuck threw his hands up. "It isn't a toy."

"It's a bit of a toy, Chuck," his brother said over his shoulder, pouring the tea with a wince as the hot steam crawled up his hand that held the kettle.

"It isn't either!" he argued. "It is just a different mode of transportation. And it's perfectly safe. I have a helmet. And I wear my goggles."

"Yes, I've seen both," Ellie said with a wan smile.

"Just a moment!" Chuck rushed out, holding up a finger. "Devon said 'your frustrations about today'. What happened today?"

He saw a bit of the fire go out of his sister's green eyes as she crossed her arms. "Let's go sit down. I just got home from a meeting and I feel…burnt out. To say the least." They walked together into the living room proper, out of the entryway from the kitchen where they had just been bantering, and sat down on the couches. Devon followed on their heels with a tray that held the tea, along with some finger sandwiches that looked delectable to Chuck at the moment.

"What was the meeting?"

Ellie and Devon shared a look at his question, then Devon slumped down next to Ellie on the settee across from Chuck and gently pushed a stray tendril of his wife's dark brown hair that escaped the chignon at the back of her head. She responded with a half-hearted smile. "The Coalition experienced a minor setback today."

Chuck sat up a bit straighter and sipped his tea, reveling in the warmth that flooded through him as it slid down his throat and into is belly. "A setback?"

"Yes. There aren't just nurses involved in the fight to grant women the right to obtain a license to practice medicine. There are some women we work with who are merely there for full equality for women in the Empire. Voting and the like."

"That's good, though, is it not?" Chuck asked, his eyes darting to Devon a little unsurely. He wasn't sure how having a diverse group of individuals be a part of the coalition would be anything less than helpful, as that was rather the point of a coalition, was it not?

"In almost every way, it is…fantastic. But there was an argument during the county meeting today between one of our nurses and one of the women who is not privy to the ways of the medical world. Henrietta Fishburne."

"_Lady Fishburne_ is in your coalition?" Chuck sputtered. "As in the wife of Lord Gregory Fishburne?"

"Yes, we have some important people in the coalition, and not _just _women, mind you."

"I'm in the coalition," Devon piped up with a proud nod. He leaned forward and lowered his voice seriously. "And I'm a man."

"Yes," Chuck drawled. "I'm well aware of this fact. Thank you, brother."

"You are always welcome, brother."

Ellie shook her head a little, her face still set in seriousness. "She just has so much of her husband's money to throw around, and she gets her hands into every little cause, mostly I think so she can parade about town telling everyone what an activist she is and _oh, Julia, have you seen how atrocious the sidewalks are on Melrose? Something simply _must _be done about that._"

He chuckled at his sister's interpretation of Lady Henrietta Fishburne, earning a bit of a smile from her.

"That actually sounded just like her," Devon said in approval. "Well done, darling."

Hearing 'darling' come from his brother-in-law's mouth gave Chuck the shivers, but he fought the outward response down and focused instead on his sister who was staring into her teacup somberly.

"I know she means well. I _think _she means well. But her superiority complex really did a number on the point of our meeting with the medical chair at the hospital. Granted, Miss Leonard really shouldn't have argued with her. But the more things like this happen, the more we look like a gaggle of silly geese squawking around with our bloomers in a bunch, screaming 'More rights! More rights!' without knowing _what _we are really asking for."

He was aware of how important the coalition was to her, the hours she spent at her writing desk, writing petitions and pleas and letters and scrounging up any extra amount of money up she could to pump it into the cause. But some days, it was as if she was running herself straight into a brick wall, backing up, and slamming into it again, and again, and again. He hated watching it. It physically hurt him to watch it.

And he knew it hurt Devon as well. The usually positive, upright, can-do attitude of the attractive surgeon seemed a little dimmer when Ellie met with failure. But that was just one of the countless reasons why Devon Woodcomb would continue to be Chuck's hero. The man protected his sister from anything and everything, but when push came to shove, he recognized the things Ellie needed to do for herself. And this, the Coalition for Women Doctors, was one of those things she wanted, _needed_, to do on her own.

That didn't mean her two men didn't fight for her whenever she needed it. And today she looked like she needed it.

Chuck sat a little straighter and exchanged a short look with Devon. "It will happen, Ellie. In a few years, I'm going to be looking at your license framed on the wall next to Devon's. Eleanor Woodcomb, M.D." He grinned widely, doing his best to keep his tiredness out of his face.

He knew Ellie saw right through it, but she grinned back nevertheless. "You're absolutely right! In no time at all." She paused and leaned forward, her hand resting on his wrist warmly. He could see the fire in her eyes again, the drive he loved so much about her, and she winked. "Aces, Charles. You're aces."

The exchange was more meaningful than Chuck was prepared for at that moment, bringing back memories he'd nearly lost as the years had gone by, and he swallowed and leaned back in his seat again, looking down at his teacup.

"Can you believe I married this woman, Chuck?" Devon asked, hugging Ellie to his side.

"I can. I was there."

Devon mock-glared and Ellie finally laughed, grabbing her tea cup for the first time since it was placed in front of her and taking a drink and wisely changing the subject. "The Woodcombs came over yesterday while you were at the shop. They were sorry to miss you."

"Indeed! Mother kept asking after you."

"Sorry to miss them," Chuck said, though he really wasn't all that sorry. As much as Chuck had grown to really love Devon like a brother, the rest of the Woodcombs made him want to crawl into a hole and rot there. Or perhaps push _them_ inside of it to rot instead and continue on his merry way.

Devon's parents meant well, he supposed, in some way, but they were both born into wealthy families and were arranged to be married when they were still children. The merging of their two families created a sprawling almost-empire of wealth which they had hoped to bring all three of their boys into when they became men. Devon was a disappointment and they made no secret about it. His entry into medical school had pained them. Both of his younger brothers became lawyers, as their father had demanded, and both still lived in the family home with their wives. Devon left the family home as a teenager, refusing his mother's coddling.

When Woodward "Woody" Woodcomb and his wife Honey heard that the woman Devon was going to marry had a brother who left university to open a toy shop, they discouraged their son from the match vehemently. In spite of them, and with as bright a smile as Chuck had ever seen on another person's face, Devon Christian Woodcomb married Eleanor Faye Bartowski in a small court ceremony with Chuck standing at his side and a very quiet Morgan donning a top hat beside him.

Allowing an android to be at his wedding, but not his own parents, had meant the Woodcombs ignored Devon for a few months after that. But Honey Woodcomb was nothing if not desperate for her sons' love and attention. And the ostracization ruling was…well…overruled.

But that hadn't meant Ellie and Chuck were forgiven. And those were honestly some of the most awkward meals Chuck thought he had ever experienced—_would _ever experience—in his entire life.

"Would you believe it? Honey brought me so much tea, I will be having it coming out of my ears. She said that it's her favorite tea, so I suppose it's nice that she is giving me so much of it." When she leaned forward to set her teacup down, Devon met Chuck's gaze and shook his head with wide eyes mouthing 'It's not her favorite' and making a face.

Chuck choked a bit on his tea and set it down with a loud clink.

"Is it too hot, Chuck?" Ellie asked, sitting back against Devon's arm, missing the way her husband's blue eyes twinkled in amusement.

"Erm, yes. Yes it is," Chuck answered quickly. "Too hot." He paused. "You know, Ellie. You could always throw it off the Santa Monica wharf. The tea, that is."

"You are _not_ helping."

"So, anyways, Chuck," Devon boomed. "You said you wanted to speak with us about something."

"I did?"

Devon raised a perfect eyebrow.

"Oh! I did. I did. Thank you. Yes." He ran a hand through his hair and saw Ellie purse her lips in annoyance. She had an infuriating habit of turning into a mother about his appearance. Mussed hair was her least favorite thing, but she had learned to deal with her brother's less than neat appearance. The man worked with steam and smoke and oil on a daily basis, after all.

At least, that was Chuck's excuse. And he would stick to it.

"Ellie, you know a lot about brains."

"Apt observation, Chuck. I do." Amusement lit her features at her own sarcasm, but she sobered a bit when she saw the way Chuck's brows knit together in concern and a bit of pain. "Chuck, what is it? Are you sick?"

"No. No, I don't think I'm—Well, maybe I am. I can't be sure either way. Because I don't feel ill, I just feel strange. And then there are the nightmares. Nightmares about catastrophic events that I can't stop no matter what I do. I'm powerless, forced to watch as…" His voice drifted off as he saw his sister and her husband exchange quick looks over the rims of their tea cups. "I know. I know! I sound mad. But it's the truth. And I need to know why it happens every damn time I shut my eyes."

He was aware of the desperation leaking into his voice and he could do nothing to stop it.

"People have nightmares they can't explain all the time, Chuck," Ellie finally answered, setting her cup down on the saucer and fidgeting a little in her seat. "It doesn't mean you're mad or that there's anything wrong with your brain. Are you having trouble sleeping aside from that?"

"That _is _the trouble, Ellie. Every time I go to sleep, the nightmares happen. Well, not every time. I have had nights where I've slept but those are few and far in between."

"Maybe you just have too much on your mind, brother," Devon added. "One of the fellows at the club had a few nights of sleeplessness because he found out his daughter's been seeing a lowly pool shark downtown." He stopped when he saw the looks Ellie and Chuck were both giving him. "His words! Not mine." Another pause. "Anyway, the point being—if you have your work on your mind, or Morgan's upkeep, or the Buy More's finances, maybe a little woman trouble, heh?" Devon bounced an eyebrow and grinned.

"Devon!" Ellie snapped. "If only Chuck would be so lucky." She blushed a little and winced apologetically in her brother's direction. "That was awful of me, I'm sorry. I just worry about you—"

"Honeeyy," Devon interceded on Chuck's behalf. He couldn't have been more grateful than he was at that moment. "What I meant was…try not to be to preoccupied with all of that. Don't let the man get you down, as they say."

"Well, that's all fine. That explains the nightmares. What about the daymares I've been having?"

"Daymares?" Devon asked, his handsome face twisted in confusion. "Oh! I see what you did there. Daymares. Nightmares…in the day. I like that. Might I use that?"

"Of course."

"Thank you!"

"Devon…" Ellie sighed.

"I apologize. You were saying."

"What do you mean, Chuck?" she continued as though none of the prior tomfoolery had happened. It was almost like she had gotten used to it over the years. "You have been having nightmares while you are awake? Or do you mean you nap in the workshop during the day and have the nightmares then?"

"I mean while I'm awake. I'll see someone, or a—a photograph—and images sort of…flit across my vision. Like slides in a projector. Then I seem to know all of this information about whatever it is I'm looking at. I knew about Officer Geralds' career in the police force, for instance, just by looking at him when he came into the Buy More to browse."

His sister and brother-in-law didn't respond for a few moments. And Chuck frowned even further, realizing it was a bad sign when both of the Woodcombs had nothing to say. "I don't know how accurate the information was about him, or if I made it up somehow on the spot, or what, but I don't exactly know where any of it even comes from. It is just all of a sudden there. In my head."

The Woodcombs exchanged worried looks.

"What? What is it? You know what it is, don't you? Don't spare me the details. I just want to know what's wrong with me," Chuck hurried out, his golden hued eyes wide and terrified.

"Chuck, just calm down. I have no idea what that is. I've never heard of anything like that before." Ellie nibbled on her lip.

Chuck sighed and flopped over again, ignoring the steaming cup of tea in front of him.

"Here. Why don't you drink more tea? It's herbal. It'll be good for you." Devon leaned forward and pushed the tray a bit closer, pouring Chuck some more tea.

"Thank you," Chuck muttered, grabbing the cup and pouring more of the steaming liquid into his mouth. He savored the feeling of it warming his throat as it slid down into his stomach. "What do I do?"

Ellie smiled reassuringly. "Just try to sleep on a schedule. It's impossible for Devon and I to sleep the same hours every night because of the nature of our work, but you can. Maybe open the Buy More later, or close it earlier. You're probably exhausted from working too hard. Make Morgan do more around the shop. You built him for a reason." They all knew the actual reason and it hung in the air between them.

"Perhaps you need an assistant," Devon tried helpfully. "You know, hire an errand boy, or someone who needs extra money and likes to build things. King George didn't win the American Revolution by himself." Chuck let out an amused huff and sipped his tea again.

Devon sat up a bit straighter then and looked quickly to his wife before setting his gaze back on Chuck. "I'll even pitch in if you need help." The inventor opened his mouth to refuse and Devon held up his hand in defense, cutting him off. "I don't want you to work yourself dead. I'm just looking out for family."

Ellie put a grateful hand on Devon's knee for a moment, then took it away, as if realizing she was in the presence of her brother. Chuck almost snorted, considering the things he had walked into in the years since Ellie and Devon began courting. So many almosts.

_Too many almosts._

He shivered a little bit and masked it by finishing off his tea and setting it down.

"Thank you, Devon. You know, maybe you are right. Both of you. I must be working too hard. Starting tomorrow, I am looking for an assistant. Morgan is a marvelous running the shop, but he is absolutely no help at all when it comes to fixing things. Unsteady hands." He stood up, putting his cup down on the tray. "Thank you, both! And it's odd, you know? I feel better already. How 'bout that?"

"Glad to help, Brother! Anything for family!" Devon exclaimed, standing up and hugging him again, thumping him on the back.

Chuck thanked them for the tea and advice, then excused himself, claiming fatigue. He left the Woodcomb residence amidst Ellie's mother-henning, then took the outdoor stairs three at a time to get to his own rooms.

He would eat his supper, wash up, and go to bed at a reasonable hour. The workshop could wait in the morning. Morgan might end up being a bit miffed that he left him alone at the store for so long, but at the moment, Chuck was finally thinking of his own well-being. And it felt wonderful.

}o{

The next afternoon found Chuck working happily on a small pocket watch an elderly gentleman had brought in a few minutes before. It was a simple fix—rewinding the gears and setting the correct time again—and it only took the engineer three minutes to have the man's watch good as new.

As the gentleman paid and tipped his hat in thanks, the door opened with a jolly jingle. Ironically the face of the individual entering the Buy More was the exact opposite of jolly. One look at the scowl on his face, and Chuck was sure all of the joy was sucked out of the Buy More sales floor.

The man swept his newsboy cap off of his head and twisted it in his hands in front of him. It wasn't a nervous gesture like it might have been for anyone else, but instead Chuck found himself imagining the cap as someone's neck and felt a chill wrack through him.

When he looked up from the hat, he saw that the man was looking straight at him. Squinting, the muscular individual walked right up to where Chuck stood, stopping on the other side of the display case and leaning his palms on it. "You work here, son?" he growled, narrowing his eyes with a look that was more intimidating than it was curious.

"I, uh, I do. Work here. I work here. Yes. I own here. I mean I own this establishment. The Buy More. I own it. This." Chuck crossed his arms and lifted his fist in front of his mouth, clearing his throat and trying to smile politely.

"You gotta job for me?"

Chuck blinked. That was not what he was expecting. Perhaps a hard punch to the nose. Certainly not this.

"You would like to work here?" the young toy maker asked, pronouncing his words slowly, not for the man's sake, but for his own.

With a grunt, the man stood straight and turned to glance around the shop. "S'good a place as any, I guess."

"Uh. Thank you."

Silence.

Finally the man shrugged his shoulders. "So?"

"Oh! I—It's just that your timing is uncanny. You see, I was just going to place an advertisement in the evening _Juggernaut_ for an apprentice. And in you walk asking for a job."

"I call that kismet."

"Fortuitous. See, I haven't been getting enough sleep lately. And between the two of us, I think it's because I work too hard. And an overworked body on top of an overworked mind, it just…does things. You don't care, do you?" The man's eyes began to glaze over a little as he spoke. "No. You just want a job. I get it. Do you have any experience in fixing machines? Mechanical skills?"

"What kind?" he grunted with a curl of his upper lip.

"For instance, most of the repair work consists of broken toys, watches, clocks, and other mechanical objects. It would make my life much easier if the less complicated, simple fixes were handled by someone else, so that I could focus on the larger projects. It also gets to be too much for me to handle them all on my own. Could you fix a watch, do you th—"

"Absolutely."

"Wh—Oh. Indeed?"

"Indeed," the man growled with a strangely prim nod.

Whoever this gentleman was, he didn't seem to be very friendly or personable. But he seemed to know the basest of social graces, at the very least, which was enough for Chuck. If he could also do the smaller repairs and cut Chuck's workload in half so that he could focus on his own inventions instead, there wasn't much more to be said on the matter.

Chuck stuck his hand out towards the man and grinned. "Charles Bartowski, owner and manager of the Buy More. You might call me Chuck."

"You might call me John Casey." The side of the man's mouth twitched a bit and Chuck had a feeling that was the closest he would get to a smile.

"Well, you've got yourself a job, Mr. Casey."

* * *

**A/N: **Oh ho ho ho! What have we here? Another couple of canon characters have come out to play.

Hope you enjoy my AU versions of them. There's a lot more where this came from.

So I hope you all stick around. Something special is in store for you next time. (wink!)

Til then, leave me some reviewness. ¡Hasta!


	8. Never Cross a Queen

**A/N: **Aha! So! We meet again! Many of you have expressed concerns about certain characters not yet appearing in _Chuck Versus the Steampunk Chronicles_. I understand your concern. Really, I do. Which is why more characters are being introduced as the chapters putter along.

I just hope you all enjoy this chapter. (monocle wink!)

You've all been tremendous with your reviews and I really cannot thank you enough! It keeps the story percolating in my noggin like nothing else! So thank you!

**Summary: **In 1776, George Washington declared himself King of the United States of America and began turning a new nation into the United States Empire: expanding to the west, amassing colonies and gaining power. Over one hundred years later, the government's secrets are at risk and a new way to keep them safe must be created. When those secrets are accidentally brought to inventor and toy maker Chuck Bartowski's doorstep, his future becomes uncertain as his life fills with adventures, hardships, and even a bit of romance.

**Disclaimer:** "Chuck" is not mine. Its characters are not mine. Though they might as well be, considering how often I think about them.

(puts on conductor hat) Next stop: Atlanta, Georgia! Toot toot!

* * *

Bryce hoisted himself onto the roof of the warehouse and knelt behind the chimney spewing black filth into the polluted, gray sky. He peered around the metal tube and pulled his short top hat lower to cover the tops of his ears.

He scratched at the scraggly beginnings of a beard on his chin and looked out over the landscape of warehouse roofs, factory smokestacks, and abandoned, dilapidated buildings. Finding her would be close to impossible in this mess of a city, but he needed her help. It was an outright pain having to ask her for anything, and he wasn't entirely sure she wouldn't just shoot him on sight. But she was his only hope.

She would help him.

She would have to. He had seen to that ahead of time.

A loud humming pervaded the air, though it was not quite loud enough to drown out the clattering machinery of the factory next door.

Bryce turned his head and spotted the oncoming airship floating menacingly through the thick soot clouds that hung over the ghost city. The smoke layer was thick here. Thicker than most places he had been to.

The words _Atlanta Air Patrol _were faded on the underbelly of the clunky ship floating above, mud and coal caking the frame, the epitome of an aircraft on its last leg due to negligence. It looked as though it were made by shoddy engineers who stuck pieces of stripped metal and iron bars together, attached steam engines at the bottom, and called it a day. These weren't real patrolmen, but poachers looking for intruders in their territory. Intruders meant an easy and only partially illegal take. And less chance of being caught out by the royal patrol.

Bryce made a mocking sound at the back of his throat and stealthily skirted the side of the roof, using the gutter pipe to drop down to the rickety fire escape at the side of the building. He huddled close to the wall, unseen as the ship chugged past. A man stood on a small platform along the side of the ship, his eyes hidden by dark goggles, a flyer helmet pulled over his head, and a long trench coat wrapped around his tall, lithe form.

Behind those goggles were eyes scanning the rows of abandoned buildings, Bryce knew. And so he pressed himself even closer to the wall, shrouding himself in the shadows.

The airship passed and the humming faded until it was nonexistent. Only then did the IEL agent slip out of the darkness and clamor back up to the roof.

But upon climbing up, he found a fist connecting directly with his jaw.

He flew backwards and almost fell from the roof, but he caught himself against the railing. Holding his jaw, he looked up at his assailant.

Covered head to toe in dark clothing, posed as though ready for a fight, the man who attacked him flashed dangerous blue eyes and surged forward, his fist flying at Bryce's head again, but this time with a knife clutched in his fingers.

Bryce caught his hand and twisted so that his attacker's body was trapped against his. "Now who are you?" Bryce ground out, attempting to hold his assailant tighter as he struggled.

Without responding, the dark man flipped Bryce over his shoulder and slammed him down against the roof. Bryce groaned and turned over, pushing himself to his feet. "A fight, is it?" he murmured, getting into position before lunging forward to elbow the mystery man in the face.

The dark figure twisted away from him and slammed his own elbow into the back of Bryce's head, sending the spy face first into the roof. Enraged, he pushed himself to his feet and grabbed the attacker's arm again, catching the glint of the knife in a small hand.

"Just—Just a minute…" he gasped, still trying to catch his breath and pushing the mystery attacker back a safe distance.

His assailant stopped but kept his knife at the ready. "The Ice Queen."

His attacker reached up and tugged the black mask from her face, revealing golden hair bound by a leather tie at the back of her head, full lips, and perfectly shaped, and now arched, eyebrows. Her blue-gray eyes flashed. "What the devil are you doing here, Bryce Larkin?" she snapped. "We had a deal. You were supposed let me the cuss alone and continue your pointless, law-sucking existence."

"Wasn't really a deal, I'd say. And why'd you attack me?" he snapped back, rolling his aching shoulder and trying to ignore the taste of blood in his mouth.

She kicked his hat across the roof to him and nearly growled, sheathing her knife in a black leather ankle holster. "All I knew was some ass in a hat was encroaching on my mission. I didn't know _you _were the ass. Although I should have known by your lousy taste in hats. And don't forget the last time we met you tried to put me in cuffs, you bastard."

Bryce glumly picked up the hat and shined it on his coat sleeve. "Aren't you charming, Miss Walker?" he said sarcastically. "So…who's the mark this time? Some industry mogul? Nobody else is here 'cepting crime bosses. Have you fallen so far that you're working for them again?" He regretted his words instantly when she pulled her knife again, fire in her eyes. He cursed himself. _Way to start things off on the right foot, numbskull._

"That's none of your concern. Now get out of here before I kill you."

"Ha. Kill me. You're still quite the wit, Sarah."

She tilted her head and looked him up and down with none of the admiration he was hoping for. "And you're still living bottle to bottle, I see. Not much has changed then, I suppose."

Bryce felt a pang of anger but fought it back. He needed her help. And snapping at her wouldn't bring her onboard any faster than if he pointed a gun at her head. "_I _suppose I won't help you, then."

"I don't need or want your help. I was doing just fine. Now, actually, I'm behind schedule. So thank you." She turned and skulked towards the edge of the building, nonchalantly stepping off.

Bryce hurried to where she had just disappeared and peeked over the edge to see her climbing down the fire escape. "Hold on. Where are you going?"

"What are you doing here, anyway?" she asked, ignoring his question.

"Came to look for you, actually. As chance would have it, _you _found _me_." He hopped down just as she had and followed her.

"Why were you looking for me? I'm not going to prison. Not again. I told you I'd kill you if I ever saw you again and I meant it." As she reached the ground, she quickly slid the mask back down over her head, obscuring her blonde hair and beautiful features behind the black cloth. Now Bryce could definitely tell she was a woman, and not just any woman—a perfectly built woman. Almost like she was manufactured in a woman factory.

He had allowed himself to forget how incredibly attractive Sarah Walker was over the last few years. He remembered now. Oh, how he remembered.

Although with the deft flick of her wrist that he barely saw and the way her knife pressed into his jugular once his feet touched dirt, Bryce rather forgot again.

"I asked you why you are looking for me." Her tone suggested she knew exactly what was distracting him and did not appreciate it at all.

"Can't a fellow look for his old nemesis without arousing suspicion? Same old Walker."

"Same old Larkin," she shot back without the teasing tone he had used. She was talking through her teeth, which he imagined was never a good sign. "You're still a terrible liar. _And you smell_."

"Well, in my defense, you never gave me much of a chance—what with the numerous tactics you employed to distract me. And I don't smell, Sarah…" He reached out and took her wrist in his hand, trying to push his fingers up her sleeve to feel her skin. But she whipped her hand away, made a fist with it, and slammed it straight into his gut.

"Don't you touch me. I thought we established that whole mess was a mistake. It is over. It has _been_ over. I got what I needed. _You're still alive_. You got to keep your job. Just tell me what you want and let me do _my_ job," she growled.

He pondered over how easily she seemed to move past their short-lived, three day affair. He had finally caught up to the skilled confidence-woman after having pursued her for months. It had been like two steam engine locomotions slamming together. And it had ended just as dramatically. With a great deal of casualties, Bryce's pride being the biggest of them, in his personal opinion.

But that was years ago now. It had been a bit harder for him to move on after he let her go. Perhaps a part of him still hadn't. She had quite a few fine qualities he couldn't quite forget.

"Fine, fine…" He clutched at his stomach and stood up with a wince. "Damn it, Walker. Still pack a mean fist."

"That's not the only thing I'm packing," she warned, twisting the knife in her palm so that light glinted off the blade. _As always. _"Quit with the boat-licking and talk."

"Alright!" He held his hands up in surrender. "I need your help."

"_My _help? We don't exactly work on the same side of the law." She rolled her eyes when he didn't answer. "With what? A mission? Don't you have a partner or something? Someone being paid by Her Majesty to mow over the helpless and needy in the name of the Empire?"

He wanted to laugh. Since when did the Ice Queen care about the helpless and needy? As she traveled through America's cities, stuffing her purse full of stolen goodies. _Sure. The helpless and the needy._

"No. I don't. And it isn't a mission. At least, it's nothing that the Imperial Espionage League knows about."

She stopped her stalking and turned from where she was pressed against the wall. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion, but he spied some curiosity. It was definitely there. He had her. "Something personal? I'm not sure what that might be, but I don't much give a clump of horse crud, either way. I think I should just kill you now."

"Please, Sarah. Just listen to me. Give me a minute. One minute." She just stared at him for a long moment, then sighed and dropped her shoulders. He smiled gratefully and crossed his arms. He explained to her about Chuck, about the Intersect and how he thought his old friend had inadvertently absorbed all of the government's best-guarded secrets and information on foreign intelligence operations. She was a thief, a fraud, the most enigmatic being on the face of this planet, and almost definitely a ruthless murderess, but he had no choice but to trust her with this. He knew he was taking a risk based on a few measly days of passion, and even those seemed questionable in light of this situation, but she was his only option. Bryce Larkin wasn't the type of man who made friends easily, and Sarah Walker was the only person he knew of whom he had dirt on. She was it. Or no one.

At least, until Bryce could find a better way out of this unholy mess.

"Are you telling me that some man who plays with toys for a living has the government's filthiest secrets in his head?" she whispered. Despite not being a government agent, she obviously knew enough to speak in low tones when discussing something this sensitive.

"I believe so, yes. And they think _I_ have it instead."

"Because you brought P534 in?"

"Yes. And as long as they think I am the Intersect, Chuck is safe."

"Why are you telling me any of this? I don't need to know. I don't _want _to know. This is the kind of mess that could get me killed…finally." Bryce wished he could see her face again. He almost answered, but she continued, her eyes pointing somewhere over his shoulder. "Don't you think that it's rather important that the IEL knows about…this…Chuck fellow? I mean, this sounds just slightly important. Maybe you can take him to your secret spy headquarters where he belongs. Then I can continue on my merry way and pretend I never heard any of this." There she was again, thinking about herself. It was a constant theme with this woman. He still wondered how he had ever escaped their torrid affair without her murdering him in his sleep. Especially because he knew her real name. Or at least…she gave him _a _name. A name besides the Ice Queen.

But she didn't know Chuck. She didn't know how important it was for Chuck to…stay the way he was. Perhaps if she met him, she would understand. She was observant enough. And brilliant at reading people.

What he wasn't sure of was whether or not Sarah Walker still had a heart. It was a cruel thing for him to ponder over, but she was more barb than anything else. And he had heard things about her since the last time he saw her. Things that weren't exactly complimentary.

"That's exactly what I _don't _want, Sarah. I need to keep him _away _from the government. Away from the directors. Away from the bosses. The damned scientists and doctors. Away from our illustrious Queen's grasp."

He felt her frown behind her mask. "Bryce, this is more important than your connection to your…boon companion. If the Intersect is found by one of the numerous terrorist groups that threaten the queen's reign, that threaten the stability of this country's survival in a world that is, as we speak, being torn apart by war…everything will change. This whole world might be lost under the tyrannical reign of some bastard with an affinity for death and destruction." Well she certainly had imagination. He would give her that much. "And you want to protect one person? The lives of millions are on the line here, including mine, thank you," she argued, seeming confused that he was even considering anything else.

Bryce was becoming less impressed by the second. Her selfishness wasn't particularly shocking. But it was still depressing. The Ice Queen's words were nothing if not true, though. He had to admit.

The Intersect falling into the wrong hands could mean the end of everything. The end of the world, even. As incredibly melodramatic as it sounded, it was true. But Chuck would be safest if he were hidden not just from terrorists, but the government who would have no qualms about using the Intersect for its own devices, whether it was ethical or not.

The young spy had learned long ago that ethics were ambiguous anyway, especially these days when a government preached morality publicly, while privately massacring the citizens in a colony thousands of miles away. He had seen it done by other nations, other empires, and he lived in fear of the day when he would be the one doing it for his own empire.

And yet, he was desperate to protect Chuck. And if Chuck was safe, the Intersect was safe. He had to make Sarah see it, and if he couldn't do that, then he would move on to his last resort. And there was a chance he might be killed in the process.

Bryce made an attempt at appealing to her humanity. If she had any left. She hadn't killed him _yet_ so that was something.

"He saved me. And he was my only friend—_is _my only friend. Hell, he's almost a brother. Sarah, you don't understand. They'll change him. They'll make him into some…some machine that follows orders—like _me_!" He threw his arms out and looked down at himself. "And look how I turned out, huh?" Bryce didn't see any of the sympathy or pity he was looking for in her pretty eyes. She was a blank canvas…as always. And not for the first time, he wondered what her story was. How she got to be this way. It wasn't surprising that Sarah Walker was a criminal. Many ended up as criminals. Especially when you were born into poverty. It was crime or starvation with no in between. Black and white with no gray area.

She was lucky in that she got to be in a position, for the most part, where she was her own boss. Bryce had no idea what she had to do to get there, and that was the part that made him feel more than a little unsettled in her company. Even when they had been intimate. He had been young and stupid. Very stupid. But perhaps now he could use it to his advantage—to Chuck's advantage.

"He's not made out to be a spy," Bryce continued. "He's—He's a genuinely good person. And you know how rare that is these days."

"Bryce, you—"

"Sarah, the further away from this life he is, the happier he'll be—the longer he'll stay _alive_! Chuck won't last out here. He won't last outside of his Buy More bubble. He's incapable of it. He's weak."

She snorted a little. "And this is how you speak of your brother? Precious."

"It's the truth. He's been sheltered. He knows nothing of the world _we_ live in."

"Oh, shove it, you bastard. You don't know me or my life. Don't clump us together in the same category, as though you understand where I came from and what I'm doing here," she snapped. Her temper was shortening by the moment, he could see. That was not a great sign.

"And anyways, he won't be that way for long," she continued. "There is no hiding from reality, Agent Larkin. No hiding from the harsh truths of life. A time will come when he will be forced to come to terms with the ways of the world. Whether he's pulled into it by the government…_or by you_. This damnable planet we live on takes no prisoners. You know that better than most people, Bryce. Isn't that the reason why you're always drowning in drink? Why most people are?" Her eyes narrowed and a flash of pain was there, for only a moment, not long enough for Bryce to notice it. And if he had, he would assume that pain was sympathy, sympathy for his plight, for his malady. But he would be wrong. "He has to get used to it, just like the rest of us. He will assimilate, and learn to do whatever he has to to survive," she said with no amount of spite in her words. It was the way it was. And he suspected she had come to terms with it long ago, just as he had. And maybe that was why he still felt that connection to her, slight as it was. She understood what it was to be depressingly alone. Did it bother her as much as it did him?

"He won't. Look, the man has a hard time killing spiders that crawl into his room. He slips them onto a tray and takes them outside. Imagine how easily he would be killed in the field, where a moment's hesitation on his part would give an enemy ample opportunity to put a bullet through his brain."

"He—"

"He saved my life once. Now it's my turn to save his."

Sarah sighed. "I don't owe you _anything_ except a blade in your back once and for all…but…I might be somewhat curious as to what you expect me to do with all of this information."

He watched her eyes, since they were the only part of her he could see. They had softened in spite of everything. He couldn't read her, even after everything they'd been through. But he hoped perhaps that she may have been warmed by his affection for his friend. Then again, this was Sarah Walker…and not much warmed the infamous Ice Queen.

"I want you to protect him."

"Pardon?"

"Please, Sarah. I've seen you fight. I've seen you handle a sword. Weapons in general. And you are a professional at blending into any situation."

"I'm a con artist. It's part of the job," she said softly, her eyes wide with shock. She shook her head a little and the anger returned. "I have plenty of other ways to spend my time instead of babysitting a grown man who plays with toys, thank you." She wasn't moved by his praise at all. Obviously.

"Like swindling and otherwise bamboozling grown men?"

"Maybe." Her eyes brimmed with a smirk. "I have a potential mark in Louisiana. A widower. Easy take. Safe. And I do not particularly relish missing it."

"Damn it, Sarah. Will you think about someone besides yourself for once?"

She took a step closer to him, her eyes flashing angrily, then she whipped off her mask again. "No! No, I will not!" she whispered harshly. "Because if _I _don't think about myself, no one else will. It means I've let my guard down. And the last time that happened, I ended up in a prison cell for three months. So, no."

"That's a dismal way to look at life."

"Yes, well…life is dismal, isn't it? If it wasn't, I would be in a damned palace somewhere licking pomegranate juice from my fingers and drinking champagne." She slipped the mask over her head again with an angry tug and turned away, leaning forward to peek around the corner.

"You seem stressed. I mean, more than usual. It seems to me you would do well to take a bit of a vacation, Walker. That's all I'm offering you. A vacation."

"Stop it, Larkin. I'm in no mood for games. I still know over two hundred ways to kill you with my bare hands."

"If you do this, if you protect Chuck, I will make sure you are compensated. Well. More than if you hornswoggle that Louisiana widower you told me about. You will get paid, Chuck will be safe. It's a win-win situation."

"That's just fine, Agent Larkin. But I will be stuck in Los Angeles protecting a toymaker from an incredibly well-stacked government agency. One person against a slew of Factory-trained agents. That's asking for death. I've asked for plenty of things in my time, but not death. Never death. I am not doing it. They find out Sarah Walker is the Ice Queen and I will be put in prison for life, if not tortured and killed."

"Sarah, you're Chuck's only hope!"

"Oh, please." She strode away from him down the alleyway and into the road, looking both ways before trotting around the corner and halting again, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the street in front of her.

Bryce followed close behind, realizing he hadn't been successful. This wasn't something he really wanted to do, but to save Chuck…

He took a deep breath and stole himself.

"I know about your father."

She stopped as though she had just run into an invisible wall and turned on him. Very slowly. Her eyes were dark swirling pools of cobalt blue. There was legitimate hatred there, and something much more frightening and dangerous—a tinge of fear that she covered quickly. He watched her fingers twitch towards the knife against her thigh. "What did you just say?"

"Your father. I know what happened in Argentina." He fought to keep from gulping, feeling sweat begin to drip down his back. What had he just done? He watched her eyes widen, then narrow menacingly. He stood ramrod straight, trying in vain to fight off his nerves.

"Are you blackmailing me?" Her voice was slow…deep…dangerous. Her knife slowly slid from the holster and she held it at her side.

"Yes. I am." He paused. "You go to Los Angeles and protect Chuck, or the bosses will have a telegram on their desks in three days detailing your father's whereabouts in Europe, with the name Sarah Walker scrawled in pretty letters at the bottom. The true identity of the _Ice Queen_…imagine what it will mean to them."

The knife was at his cheek and in less time than that, she spun him so that his front was pressed against the wall, his arm twisted painfully behind his back. "Or I could kill you, Agent Larkin, like I should have years ago."

"You can't," he ground out, tasting the grime of the wall as she pressed his face into it. He could feel the weight of his pistol in his jacket. If he could just get to it without her knowing…

"Can't I?" A drop of blood from where her knife pierced his tender skin ran down into his shirt collar. "Just an inch deeper and your pretty face won't be so pretty anymore. Are you sure you would like to take that risk?"

"Sarah, you won't kill me."

"Who says I won't?"

"You care about me. I can see it." He couldn't see it. Nor could he feel it as she twisted his arm roughly. Wrong thing to say, he realized belatedly.

"You sack of horse shit—"

"Sarah, please. _Please_." He almost had his fingers around the pistol…

"You know about my father. About me. You are a liability. And you know what I do to liabilities."

"You kill a royal agent and your crimes as the Ice Queen won't be the only things held over your head by the government."

"That's only if they find your body, you lousy piss pot. Even if I don't kill you, you tell them who I am and they won't believe you. People have been turning innocent women in as the Ice Queen from the very beginning."

"Sarah, you broke your father out of an Argentine prison. You'll be put in jail, and no one will be able to get you out this time. Maybe with good behavior…if you try to stay out of those prison fights. But then again, you _are_ the Ice Queen…so perhaps not. I'm imagining someone with your record would be locked away in isolation."

His hand was around the gun, but he stayed still. There was a chance he wouldn't need to use it. A small chance. A microscopic chance. But it was there. Hopefully.

She was silent, her beautiful blue eyes cloudy and full of anger. "What if I fail? What if he dies?"

"The letter will be on Graham's desk in a matter of days."

Her eyes widened, then narrowed again.

"You _will_ regret this," she said in a low, dangerous voice. Bryce was well-aware of what the Ice Queen was capable of. Many a dead body had been left in her wake. But Sarah Walker would do anything to survive. And for now, her survival depended on Chuck's. He had never seen her murder anyone, but he knew she had. He had too, but he had the law on his side.

"Thank you, Sarah," he said in relief as she stepped back and let him turn to face her. Just as his fingers slipped away from his gun, her fist swung in a beautiful arc and slammed into his jaw. He staggered back but didn't fall, instead holding his face in surprise and pain.

"I'm not doing this for you," she said in an acidic voice. "I'm doing it for the money. And there better be a lot of it. In fact, I'd like to see some of it now if it wouldn't be too much trouble. You'll pardon me if I don't trust you after you've just blackmailed me with mine and my father's freedom."

"Now?"

Her knife was out again and he almost rolled his eyes. "A show of good faith, as it were."

Bryce went into his coat pocket and pulled half of the wad out, keeping the rest safely tucked away inside where she couldn't get at it. "This should be enough for now. You can trust me, Sarah. All I want is for my friend to be alright. I know you don't believe me. But you can trust me."

Sarah tentatively reached out to take the wad of bills, sheathing her knife before putting away her payment.

"You aren't going to check to see how much is there?" he asked.

"No. I'm not. That's _my _show of good faith. I suppose it goes both ways. Even though you're a blackmailing son of a bitch." She eyed him in slight disgust.

Bryce wondered if he was making a mistake, but he shook the thought off. Nothing was more important to the Ice Queen than her freedom and survival. He held both of those over her head. She had no choice but to comply. When she met Chuck, she would see why he was worth protecting. Anyone like him, like Ellie even, as both of the Bartowskis were such a rare and special breed, needed to be safeguarded from the evils of the world.

There was no one more capable of doing just that than Sarah Walker. Even though she was one of those evils, a voice in Bryce's head informed him. He shook that thought off. She wouldn't hurt Chuck. Perhaps Sarah Walker might have a frozen heart, but she had a fully functioning brain. And she knew how important it was to keep the Intersect hidden.

And if that meant Chuck was safe for the time being, Bryce was satisfied.

"As long as Chuck is alive, I'll have no regrets," he finally said resolutely.

Sarah raised an eyebrow. "You had better hope not."

}o{

Two days later, Sarah Walker, criminal mastermind con-woman extraordinaire, skilled in the art of acting and just about any type of fighting, knife-wielding, and shooting, watched as Bryce Larkin, her once nemesis and lover (both at the same time), boarded the zeppelin _S.S. Imelda _bound for New York, where it would pick up more passengers and thereafter head to France.

_She gripped at her skirts as she ran, her free hand clutching onto her pistol when she turned into a hallway that stopped at a dead end. She tried the door on her right but it was locked. The door on her left was locked as well. So she turned to face the window at the end of the hall and darted towards it, pulling back the curtain._

_Moonlight flooded in, battling against the shadows cast over the mahogany floors beneath her boots. Her feet ached, but she couldn't stop. Not now._

_Not when he had her right where he wanted her._

_"Well, well, Sarah Walker," she heard him goad from behind her. He was trying to hide the fact that he was out of breath, but she knew better, and she smirked to herself even though she was in a dangerous predicament._

_"Who's Sarah Walker? I'm Lara Tallis," she chirped._

_"Drop the act, Sarah."_

_She turned and pointed her gun at his head, knowing full well that he already had his own gun leveled at her. "What act, Bryce?"_

_"I didn't wanna hurt you, but you left me no choice." His eyes shone in sincerity but she scoffed at him, shaking her head and tightening her grip on the pistol._

_"You _are _an idiot, aren't you? I bet you have, what, six…seven IEL operatives in this building right now, combing each floor to find me. That is why you're here, right? A delay tactic until they come to arrest me?" She clenched her jaw and raised an eyebrow. "And you really think I will make it that easy? When I get out of here, if I ever see you again, I'll kill you."_

_"I tricked you and you're sore, aren't you?" His smirk was infuriating. _

_"Not as sore as you're gonna be when I'm through with you, you son of a bi—" A crash sounded on the floor below, a door being kicked in perhaps. Sarah looked down the hallway behind Bryce and bit her lip. For a moment, she pondered what it would be like in a windowless room with nothing but four walls for the rest of what would be her short life. If she wasn't immediately hanged or shot. Or worse…they had a poison they might inject—_

_Her thoughts stilled as Bryce lowered the gun._

_"What the hell are you doing?" she asked, her heart thumping wildly in her chest, her brow furrowed in confusion._

_He tilted his head at her. There was amusement there, and a sparkle of something else, something she couldn't read. _

_"What?" she asked through her teeth, a little breathless. She kept the gun trained on him just as steadily as before, though…just in case._

_"Go."_

_"Are you mad?" she whispered savagely._

_"The world is a more exciting place for a fellow like me when women like you are loose." He holstered his pistol and shrugged. "I will catch you again, though, make no mistake, Miss Walker."_

_"You let me go out that window and I owe you _nothing_, you hear me?"_

_He only shrugged again._

_"You crazy bastard." She heard thumping on the stairs and didn't look back as she wrapped her fist in material from her dress and shattered the window with a quick punch. She swung through it and clamored up the drain pipe into the shadows. To freedom._

As the zeppelin rose into the sky and slowly moved east across the barren southern landscape, Sarah felt strange. It was not anything she could explain—just a sort of feeling that meant something was changing.

Her life as she knew it was changing.

She would be bound for Los Angeles within the hour, and would be rid of the industrial, polluted city of Atlanta, along with its rebel leaders and tyrant crime lords.

At least her mark would be easy.

A toymaker.

She scoffed to herself and turned away, not bothering to look at the _S.S. Imelda _again. She had a long journey ahead of her and she had preparations to make.

* * *

**A/N: **Ahhh, you can all breathe easy now. She's here. All I can say is I really and sincerely hope that this was worth the wait for you lovely readers.

Let me know and review!

Because, you know, that would be grand and all that...


	9. All This for a Loaf of Bread?

**A/N: **It seems you were generally pleased with Sarah's emergence into our story. This pleases me. It really does!

And so we continue our steampunky journey, but first I have to say thank you again to everyone showing interest. I know this is strange and different and what the devil are you even making us read, Steampunk Chuckster? Something good. Hopefully. To answer your question.

**Summary: **In 1776, George Washington declared himself King of the United States of America and began turning a new nation into the United States Empire: expanding to the west, amassing colonies and gaining power. Over one hundred years later, the government's secrets are at risk and a new way to keep them safe must be created. When those secrets are accidentally brought to inventor and toy maker Chuck Bartowski's doorstep, his future becomes uncertain as his life fills with adventures, hardships, and even a bit of romance.

**Disclaimer:** "Chuck" is not mine. Its characters are not mine. Though they might as well be, considering how often I think about them.

When last we joined our _plucky_ (and dangerous, it must be said) heroes, the Ice Queen received a new mission. Well, she was blackmailed into a new mission, but that's beside the point. And Mr. Positivity himself, the toymaker, hired a new assistant. A Mr. John Casey.

Let's look! (pulls back curtain with an intrigued face)

* * *

"Bartowski!"

Chuck turned from where he stood chatting to a young woman who didn't seem particularly averse to his attentions. He sent John Casey a pointedly annoyed look. "May I help you, Casey?"

"The machine is stuttering again."

"Did you check his jaw? It rusts a little sometimes."

"Not _that_ machine. The important one."

Chuck made an unamused face and watched as Casey ducked back into the workshop. He turned back to the woman and gave her a polite smile, excusing himself and hurrying after his new assistant.

John Casey had been working at the Buy More for a little less than two weeks now, every day, from opening until closing. It had been, in a word, a godsend. The man was surly more often than not, but brightened up a bit with customers. At least he hadn't frightened anyone off, and Chuck considered that a blessing. Morgan had been less vocal around the man, which was another blessing, because Morgan's opinions tended to irk others. And Casey seemed the type of man who lived in a constant state of being irked—whether by humanity or the world in general.

Granted, Chuck had yet to get used to the man's disposition. By nature, the toymaker enjoyed conversing with people. He thrived around others. It was what kept customers coming back to the Buy More when their devices and toys needed repair. To spend nine hour days in the company of a growling cactus plant was not entirely what Chuck had expected.

As he made his way into the workshop, Morgan brushed past him toward the front. "My jaw is just fine, thank you," he snapped. Chuck rolled his eyes and walked to the machine that was spewing an awful lot of steam into the room.

"What have we got here?" Chuck asked as Casey stepped up beside him.

"Think a gear is busted. Rusty screws maybe. I saw a gear that was off-kilter. Probably needs a replacement. S'broken." He took off his hat and mopped up the steam condensation from his face before setting it back on his head.

"That's what it looks like. Shut it down for now. I'll make a trip to the smithy if you watch the Buy More for me. Morgan's perfectly capable, but he has trouble relating to the customers." Chuck didn't mention Casey seemed to have just as much trouble relating to customers, if not more.

"Will this do?"

Chuck turned and looked at the large gear in Casey's meaty hand. The grooves weren't the right shape.

He lifted his eyes to Casey's face to answer and his brain clouded as a sharp stab of pain went through his head. The images flashed again and he saw a document with the letters _IBoMaD _typed across the top, then the image switched and there was a photograph of men in naval officer uniforms, then another photograph of men posed behind gaming tables with drinks in hand, then a man walking across the street and crumbling to the ground in a cloud of red…a vision of someone in dark clothes in the window above with a rifle at his shoulder…

He shook his head and stepped back from Casey. What did the Imperial Bureau of Machinery and Defense's seizure of a club beneath a factory in New York have to do with anything? And why did he all of a sudden know about it?

"Uh—Uh, that isn't the right shape." There was a suspicious look in Casey's eyes as he stepped closer and lowered the gear to his side.

"Bartowski? Everything alright?"

"Y-Yes! I'm fine, I'm fine. Perhaps I'm a little hungry. I think I will go across to the main street and get some of those pigeon sandwiches. Would you like one? Of course you would."

"Pigeon?"

"I'll get you one. I'll be right back. Go ahead and—you know, do the—fix the—Right." Chuck hurried out of the workshop, grabbing his hat along the way but neglecting his coat. He completely missed the small smile the female shopper sent him as he strode past her and burst out into the street, breathing heavily. It had been awhile since he had flashed—that was what he had taken to calling it. Flashing. Like a flash of painful blinding light, as though someone took a photograph and the bulb exploded directly in his face.

He almost forgot how it felt—the way his head rang for a few moments after, the terror as he realized his lack of control over his own mind. Whatever was doing this to him was more than just lack of sleep. There was something _in_ him. Something that had to do with Bryce's automaton. That blue cube with the churning innards…

Was it the gear that had triggered it, he wondered? Or was it Casey? But Casey was just a distempered fellow who had needed a job. Why would he have anything to do with whatever Bryce had brought to his workshop in that automaton? He wouldn't. And that was all there was to it. Perhaps it wasn't triggered by anything. What if he was beginning to flash without a reason? What if it happened while he was in the middle of the street? He might be hit by a steam carriage or trampled by horses.

He stopped after a block and leaned against the brick building next to him, unable to wrestle the image of the cloud of blood exploding from a man's chest out of his head. Why was that the only thing he remembered from the flash? Something grisly and violent and terrifying…

Had the victim been the owner of the seized club? Why was a government agency concerned with that particular club? Was it a criminal hideout? They most always were. Gambling rings, cover for murderers and drug dealers, opium dens on occasion.

But it was nothing for the Bureau of Machinery and Defense to worry about. They had more important things to deal with, didn't they? National security, for instance.

Feeling more confused, but ultimately better now that his headache was gone, Chuck ran his hands down his face and let out a long breath.

Footsteps clanged above him and he looked up at the patrolman crossing the iron bridge between the two buildings, his gait slow and lackadaisical, as though he had nowhere special to be. He wore a tall top hat, goggles to protect his eyes from the smoke that rose from the factories, a thick coat, and he had a rifle slung over his shoulder by a leather strap.

Patrolmen in Los Angeles were almost as corrupt as the criminals they were paid to stamp out. If you had the money to pay them off, they saw nothing, they heard nothing, they did _absolutely nothing_. Many times they were mercenaries for hire—and the crime lords had the money. Chuck had learned early on in his life as an orphan that the patrols weren't to be trusted. He and Bryce had enough run-ins as young teens to know who to avoid—and patrolmen were _always_ to be avoided.

A woman yelped behind him and Chuck spun. A young boy burst through the gathering crowd and crossed the street, hiding something under his jacket and holding it to his chest as he ran, a wide-eyed look of terror on his face.

"Come back here, ya little bastard!" A rotund man hurried after the boy, a long stick in his hand. "Help! Thief! Stop!"

The child, who must have been no more than eight or nine years old, met eyes with Chuck as he reached the sidewalk and halted, looking left and right. "Mister, please. My mother—"

"Hey! Stop 'im!" the merchant yelled from behind a carriage that was forced to skid to a halt to avoid hitting him. Chuck could feel the man's piercing black eyes glaring at him, even though he hadn't been able to tear his own gaze away from the desperate features of the boy.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he half-heartedly reached out towards the boy, but was easily dodged, which had been the point. The thief hurried off then, but not before sending him a mildly surprised and tentatively grateful look. Apparently Chuck had not been quite as convincing as he had meant to be.

_Can't win 'em all._

Overhead, Chuck heard a loud click, the sound rising above the din of the startled crowd. How he managed to hear it was a mystery, but it had almost been like the boom of a cannon shot from inside his cranium. The shouting continued as he looked up and saw the patrolman staring along the barrel of his rifle, the muzzle following the escaping child.

"Get down!" Chuck bellowed as loud as he could, startling a well dressed gentleman strolling past him. Without another thought, the toymaker tore down the sidewalk after the boy and dove, wrapping his arms around the much too skinny shoulders and taking him down to the ground hard, managing to roll midair to take the brunt of the collision. A shot rang out, the terrifying sound echoing off of the buildings surrounding them. Women screamed and ducked inside of nearby stores, gentlemen dove to the ground and covered their heads or cowered against the walls and behind light poles.

Another shot rang out and connected with the pavement near the young thief's head. "Come on, come on! Get up!" Chuck leapt to his feet and lifted the boy up with one arm and tucked his nearly nonexistent weight up under his armpit, rushing down the street and ducking into an alleyway. He set the boy down and looked into his frightened green eyes, kneeling before the dirty-faced thief, his hands on bony shoulders. "You aren't hurt, are you?"

The boy brought a sleeve up and wiped at his mouth quickly, shaking his head. "S'alright. Thanks, mister."

Behind him, he heard the cock of a rifle. Chuck spun and stepped in front of the young fugitive. "He's just a child. And hungry. Please."

"Think I care about that, you civilian scum? We're all hungry for somethin'." The man reached up and took a splinter of wood out from where he'd had it clenched between his teeth, flicking it to the ground and raising the rifle again. "Move aside or I shoot through you." There was a smirk on the stubble-surrounded lips beneath the goggles.

"L-Look. Come on, can we not be reasonable about this? He probably stole a measly loaf of bread. Honestly, how much could that be? What if—I know! I know! I will pay for it. I will pay. Then everyone wins, yes?"

"Or I can shoot you both and I'mthe _only _winner," the cloaked man sniggered. "Say your prayers, princess. If you know any."

Chuck felt the boy's small fist tighten on the back of his vest. He shut his eyes and braced himself for the sound of the rifle going off, the excruciating pain of the bullet slamming into his body, rupturing a vital organ.

He heard the shot and felt a sudden pain cut across his shoulder. Chuck hit the ground and grasped at his arm beneath the wound, squirming in pain and whimpering in terror. The thief scrambled away, scaling the fence at the end of the alley and expertly hoisting himself over it, disappearing forever with his prize without looking back once. Gritting his teeth and growling at the stinging wound, Chuck turned back around when he heard soft clicking of what sounded like heels approaching where he lay in the alley.

His vision began to blur, then, the tops of the buildings flanking him shifting this way and that, so he shut his eyes tightly until he heard the rustle of skirts and felt a hand on his chest. "Damn it," a feminine voice cursed softly. "Is he fainting? He's fainting. Oh, God."

Another whispered curse sounded in the same angelic voice, this time closer. He blinked his eyes open, seeing a hazy face haloed by blond tendrils of pristine, lustrous hair. He thought maybe he was smiling as he reached up with his uninjured arm, his fingers stretching out to feel the soft skin of her face, whoever she was.

"What—!" _WHAP! _He felt the sting of something slapping against the side of his face and he succumbed to unconsciousness.

When he blinked open his eyes again, a woman was leaning over him, pinching her lower lip between her teeth in some emotion he couldn't decipher because he was too busy being positively dazzled by how incredibly gorgeous she was.

"Oh, thank goodness you're awake. Sir, are you alright?" she asked in a soft voice. Was she who had been crouched beside him however long ago that was? Had he passed out? What…?

"Ah!" He winced at the stinging pain in his shoulder as he tried to sit up. "I've been shot. God, I've been shot. He shot me. I'm gonna die," he rambled, dropping his head back against the pavement and panting.

Her face was so close to his now as she moved the hand that was against his chest up to his uninjured shoulder. Chuck stared, slack-jawed, the pain in his arm forgotten as he took in her churning gray-blue eyes, full lips and arched eyebrows. Her blond hair pulled back into a pretty knot with dainty escaped tendrils framing her perfect face was a shocking contrast against the dark, soot-cloud sky. "You'll be alright, I think," she breathed with a reassuring smile. He realized he was clutching his wound with his free hand when she tried to cautiously pull it away with gentle fingers on his wrist. He was in a daze, his shoulder hurt, and he was supposed to be dead. _I'm supposed to be dead._

"Am I dead?" he whimpered.

She smiled a bit but didn't answer, helping him to sit up. "Do you think you might be able to stand up if I helped you?"

"I've been shot!"

Her eyes flicked up to his. "Yes, I see. We're going to stand up, alright?" He swallowed thickly. "I, uh, alright. Yes." He paused. "How long was I unconscious?"

"A little less than a minute. Nothing serious." So it was her kneeling over him.

She had one hand wrapped in the material of his vest, the other clutching his uninjured arm as she helped him carefully climb to his feet. He took in her appearance more fully this time, the simple and understated dress covering her tall, lithe figure, the navy blue material tight on her torso and flowing down over her legs—long, long legs. He assumed, of course. Or maybe he was losing too much blood.

Suddenly a stinging in his cheek alerted him to something that he thought he remembered before he…

"Did you hit me?"

Her eyes widened, and then she looked incredibly confused, and maybe even a little affronted. "Hit you? Of course I wouldn't hit you! You've been injured!"

Chuck furrowed his brow, then shook his head. "I-I'm sorry. I must be crazy."

"It's understandable," she reassured, patting his arm. "You're still bleeding, though. We have to do something about that."

"What—Ah!" He winced as she jarred the wound on his arm, pushing his suspender strap close to his neck and away from the gash. "What happened to the—the man who was—the patrolman fellow?"

"He must have realized he was a barbarian and left before he could cause anymore trouble," she said through gritted teeth, her eyes flashing. "I cannot abide those men, strutting about with their rifles, taunting innocent citizens for laughs. Trying to kill a little boy for no other reason than to break the monotony in his day." He thought for a moment she had murmured some hellacious curse under her breath, but realized he must still be a bit delirious from blood loss, or fainting, or both. The way she was smiling up into his face, her soft blue eyes, the kindness in the way she touched him. No, he was hearing things.

"He just…left?" Chuck asked.

"I suppose so. I was so focused on you that I'm afraid I didn't entirely notice him."

"Me?" he panted. This stunningly gorgeous woman was focused on him? Granted, she had just seen him get shot. He winced again as she pulled a little against his brown vest to move it as well. His wound was bleeding through his tan shirt and soaking the material. "I guess I'll never be wearing this shirt again."

She sent him a quick smile and swallowed a bit thickly. He watched as she paled at the sight of his arm. "I'm terribly sorry, I'm—" She seemed embarrassed and he reached out with his good arm to steady her when she swayed a little, but realized just in time that his own blood dripped from his fingers.

He pulled his hand back and dropped it to his side as she steadied herself against his chest.

"I'm not accustomed to this much blood, I'm afraid." She took a deep breath and shook her head, standing straight again, obviously unaware of the effect she had on him standing so close. He could _feel _the warmth of her, smell her. She smelled like fresh flowers. "Fortunately, it's not so bad. It is a deep graze but nothing worse than that. Then again, I'm no doctor."

Chuck couldn't help but smile when she flushed at that, her eyes drifting over the wound and prodding gently at the torn shirtsleeve.

He jolted suddenly when with one rapid movement, she tore his shirtsleeve clean off of his arm, clutching it in her hand. She used it to mop up the blood around his wound which had already stopped gushing at least. He swallowed, trying to ignore that a beautiful woman had literally torn a portion of his clothing from his body. He had just been shot, though, and desperate times…as they say.

"That was a very brave thing you did. By the way." She tied the cloth of his shirt around the wound tightly, keeping her hands there for a long while, and Chuck was still more baffled than he was in pain.

He shook his head, trying to will himself out of the stupor this woman was putting him in. "Don't give me any credit. I actually wasn't thinking at all." He flashed his teeth at her, his nose crinkling as it always did when he grinned. "I'm not sure I was fully conscious until I was on the ground having just been shot."

"Well," she giggled. "I'm not sure you were entirely conscious even then. You thought you were dead."

"Ah, but can you really blame me?" he shot back softly. "I thought I was in Heaven and you were an angel." He licked his lips and looked away in embarrassment. _Did I really just say that? Wonderful, Bartowski. Just marvelous. _He inwardly rolled his eyes at himself.

Her smile was wide and there was a small blush on her perfect cheeks, but she sent him a teasingly scornful look anyways. "Oh, come now. Is that the best you can do?" He turned his head so quickly that he felt his neck crack. She ignored his bulging eyes and lightly set a hand on his makeshift bandage, still smiling. "Now let's get you to the clinic down the road."

He had to shake himself out of a daze not for the first time since she appeared in the alleyway to help him. "No, no. I-I'm fine. I'm alright. Maybe I'll just head back to work."

"Work? I don't think that's a good idea—"

"It's just a graze, like you said…"

"A rather deep graze. You might need to have it stitched up."

"…and my sister will know how to patch this up in no time." His shoulder was aching something powerful now that she wasn't touching it anymore. It was funny how that worked.

"Your sister is a nurse?"

"She is. Ellie's trying to get into medical school to become a doctor. It's slow going, what with it being a male dominated profession. And quite a few stuffed-shirts who don't take well to change, even when it's progress. You will pardon me for saying so, I hope." He paused as she walked him out of the alleyway, her eyes flicking up and down the street. Her grip was strong on his arm, and he felt incredibly safe—strange that _she_ was the one making him feel safe and not the other way around.

He felt foolish.

"Miss, I—I was wondering…"

"Yes?" she prompted distractedly.

"Your na—"

"Young man! I saw what happened! Are you alright?" A middle-aged man with a tall top hat and skewed overcoat pushed between Chuck and his pretty companion.

"I-I'm fine, thank you."

"The way you leapt in front of a bullet! Bully! …Where is he?"

"Uh, who?"

"The boy!"

"He…left?"

"A shame. A damned shame. You know…" The man must have seen Chuck's eyes dart past him. "Is everything alright, Sir? Did you lose something?"

Chuck scanned the crowd frantically. He had taken his eyes off of his mystery woman for less than five seconds and now she was nowhere to be found. "A—A woman."

The man gave a loud belly laugh. "You wouldn't be the first poor sap to lose one of _those_. Ha-ha!"

"No. The woman I was just with. She was here. Standing here." Chuck felt his heart sink all the way to his feet.

"What woman?"

"She was standing right here!" Chuck argued loudly. "Did you see where she went? A woman with golden hair. A…a dark blue dress. Very pretty. Incomprehensibly so. Did you see where she went?" He spun in a circle, searching the faces in the crowd.

He couldn't find her. He frowned, more upset than he cared to admit, and allowed the man to lead him to his carriage. Chuck gave the address of Ellie's clinic, hoping she would not be there.

Her maternal instincts were still just as powerful as they had been when they lived in the orphanage as children. When she saw he had nearly been shot, and by a patrolman no less, she would rage 'til the land mass upon which they stood sunk clear into the ocean.

}o{

Everything was grey.

Down each alleyway, through each curtain-drawn window, in each pair of eyes he met as he stalked through the streets, he saw darkness. In a world that was once filled with light, before the sins of man overtook paradise, now there existed only shadows. They seeped over him like blistering hot molasses, threatening to enter his pores, his eyes, ears, nose, mouth.

He shivered as a cold gust of wind nearly blew his hat off, causing him to have to pull his hand from his coat pocket to reached up and steady it. Tugging his cloak tighter around him, his eyes flicked to the small merchant cart that sat unattended. It was a foolhardy show of trust on the merchant's part. To trust the villainous masses, to trust human beings with one's livelihood like this, was a grave mistake. And he would pay for that mistake.

It was a wonder no one had stolen from him yet. Perhaps the merchant needed to learn his lesson…

He slid a hand out of his cloak and swiped a mushy apple from one of the baskets on the cart. He hated apples, the gritty insides under the pretty, smooth skin. An apple was too much like man. It disgusted him, so he threw the apple to a middle-aged woman huddled in an overly large black coat, her wide-brimmed hat pulled low over her face.

"Aw, bless ya, Sir. Bless ya," she gasped, scrambling to collect the apple off of the grimy ground and biting hungrily into it so that the juices sluiced over her lips and chin.

He fought off the urge to vomit and turned away in utter disgust, not bothering to hide it from her.

He was trapped in a world in which human beings ate food from the floor like animals. Studiousness and hard work did not occur to people like the impoverished woman he had given the apple to. No, they would sit in their own filth on the side of the street begging for coins and food. And the ignorant masses would readily aid them in their conquest for ultimate inactivity.

A loud gong sounded just ahead, once…twice…three times, and he looked up at the tower constructed into the side the old cathedral which was now used as a boarding house for the mildly insane. Whoever had thought to put schizophrenics and lunatics in a large building with church bells that sounded off every hour certainly had a few screws loose themselves.

He chuckled at his own humor, rare though it was, and turned the corner, away from the cathedral for the insane, towards a small clock-shop he knew well.

The owner had never noticed him during his visits, had never approached him to ask if he needed any assistance. In fact the man had gone about his business each time, ignorant of the presence of this darkly clad, tall man who had been in his shop at least fifteen times in the last week. Of course that was because the owner had never been there when the mysterious stranger had visited. In fact, _none _of the workers had seen him.

He had only been in the shop during closed hours, in the middle of the night, when he could work silently and efficiently without time constraints or the threat of being interrupted by the lazy-eyed apprentice or the chubby, flour-smudged wife the clock maker rarely touched.

The bell jingled loudly as he walked in. The clock maker looked up from the glass case that housed his intricate wooden table clocks and pocket watches. The smile on the middle-aged man's wrinkled face was tentative at best, and he went back to his work.

"What are your hours?" the mystery man asked, sweeping his hat from his head, his eyes scouring the shop for any other customers as he smoothed his hand down the slick, straight dark hair on his head. The shop was fortunately empty, and the tell-tale sound of whirring from the workshop past the threshold behind the clock maker was nonexistent. They were completely alone.

"I open at nine and close at five thirty on the dot. Er…might I help you…find something, Sir?"

"No, no thank you. I've found everything I need. Is Tim here, by chance?" He raised a pert eyebrow and tossed his hat so that it hung effortlessly from one of the clocks against the wall. The clock maker regarded his action with a hint of confusion, but mostly just agitation.

"Tim?" He shook his head. "Whom are you looking for?"

"Oh, I am wrong. It's Tom, isn't it?"

"My apprentice? Yes, he goes by Tom. Er…Thomas. He's not working today." He paused. "Sorry." It came out as a grumble, a forced bit of politeness, an afterthought really. It was exactly what the mystery man was expecting and his thin lips stretched into a sardonic smirk. Humans were so predictably human.

"Ah, I see. That's good, that's good." He crossed to the door and latched the lock, turning the sign over so that it read "closed" to the public. Then he reached up and pulled the door shade down.

"Now see here! Just what are you doing there?" The clockmaker pulled his magnifying strap from where it rounded his head and slammed it down on the glass counter. "You unlock that door! I'm still open!"

"God our Father," he murmured to himself, drawing the shade of the shop window down and crossing to the other. "Your power brings us to birth, Your providence guides our lives, and by Your command…" He paused, sliding the shade down of the last window, enveloping the shop in pitch darkness.

"Stop this! You unlock the door and let the light in again." There was no response, no shuffling of feet, just the ticking of the clocks in the shop, the whirring of gears.

"…We return to dust."

The voice came from directly next to the clockmaker's right ear and he fell to the side with a cry, cowering on the ground. A candle was lit and placed on the glass case, illuminating the man's dark features. "You're just a man, Lawrence. Just a weak, weak man. I do not judge. It is not for me to judge." His voice was calm and even, like a soothing balm to a festering wound. But it did nothing to ease the terror beginning to mount in the clockmaker's breast.

"W-What are you? What have I done?"

"You've done nothing, really, except open your shop in a rather important building. Important to me. To my operations. Terrible timing, really. This all could have happened one hundred years from now and by then you'd have died of old age in your bed. Something peaceful and silent, while you were sleeping. But then you'd never have the chance I'm giving you now."

"Ch-Chance? What do you mean, chance?" Sweat was pouring from every last pore on the man's body as his fingers snaked along the floorboards behind him, moving as slow as he could. He had dropped a screwdriver earlier and it had rolled under the cabinet. If he could just reach it…

The mysterious man's eyebrows shot up. "Why, the chance to repent. Penitence, my fat, gluttonous friend."

"I have nothing to repent," the clockmaker spat.

"I've seen your nightly jaunts to the whorehouse, Lawrence. It's filthy. Don't think you can play me like you play your wife."

"I've done nothing that any other man in this damned place hasn't done himself. You included, I'm willing to bet." Just a few inches further and maybe he could reach that screwdriver. He pushed himself even further back.

"Me?" The man laughed low in his throat, then his features sobered with a darkness that sent a cold chill through the clockmaker. "I don't touch the stuff." He paused. "Really, you're no worse than anyone else. You're right about that. Which is why you won't be the only one. You'll just be one of the first."

The clockmaker wasn't listening as his fingers closed around the wooden handle of his screwdriver. He carefully eased his hand along the floor, out from under the cabinet. Then he struck, slamming his arm up with the screwdriver pointing at his assailant's face.

But a gloved hand shot up from within the folds of his cloak and bat the screwdriver out of the clockmaker's fingers, sending it clattering to the ground out of reach. The clockmaker let out a sob of despair, watching as the calm murderer drew a syringe from his pocket. A clear liquid sloshed inside of it.

"The only pain you'll feel is the prick of the needle. Not much more you could ask for, is there?" He flicked the side of the glass syringe and grinned. "I made this myself. You'll enjoy it. I promise."

The needle pierced the skin of the clockmaker's neck and within an instant, the color had seeped from his face, the blood stilled in his body, his heart stagnant in his chest.

Breathing hard, the mystery man removed the needle and stuck the syringe back in his pocket, tugging his cloak off and gently laying it atop the clockmaker's body so that it covered the lifeless, gaping face.

"In Company with Christ, Who died and now lives." He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his suit jacket, then shrugged it off, folding it over his arm. "…May they rejoice in Your kingdom, where all tears are wiped away."

He grabbed the candle from the display case and strode into the workshop, past the table he had walked past in the dark on many nights like this, so often that he knew every uneven board in the floor, every placement of the tables and chairs. He knelt down and wedged his fingers into a small niche in the wood of one of the floorboards. With a tug, it pried loose in his fingers.

Within moments, an entire block of floorboards were removed, revealing a set of dirt covered steps leading down into the darkness. On the third step was a glass cover, which he slipped over the candle to protect the flame and started down the stairs.

"Unite us together again in one family, to sing Your praise forever and ever."

* * *

**A/N: **Well, this guy turned the creepy dial up to eleven. Obviously.

But who is he? I won't tell you! Yet...

Review, you wonderful you!

'Til next we meet again!


	10. The Hornswoggler is Hornswoggled

**A/N: **I had the week from hell last week, which made posting another chapter impossible. I apologize to anyone who was waiting for this chapter. But here it is! All sorts of Sarah Walker up in this chapter, too. You are in for a treat! I think. I hope. I'm sure you'll all let me know once you finish reading it.

Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, sent me a tweet, PM, note on tumblr, etc. You're all marvelous!

**Summary: **In 1776, George Washington declared himself King of the United States of America and began turning a new nation into the United States Empire: expanding to the west, amassing colonies and gaining power. Over one hundred years later, the government's secrets are at risk and a new way to keep them safe must be created. When those secrets are accidentally brought to inventor and toy maker Chuck Bartowski's doorstep, his future becomes uncertain as his life fills with adventures, hardships, and even a bit of romance.

**Disclaimer:** "Chuck" is not mine. Its characters are not mine. Though they might as well be, considering how often I think about them.

A mysterious woman appeared out of the blue (with eyes of bright shining blue) to help our hero after a run-in with a jerk patrolman, promptly pulling a vanishing act that makes Houdini look like a party-trick doof.

Who was she? We know who she was. LET'S FOLLOW HER! Wear your ninja clothes, everybody! And let's be ninjas.

* * *

Sarah Walker was one of the nation's, nay, the whole world's most sought after confidence artists, or at least she had been prior to allowing herself to be blackmailed by a damned spy. What happened to the Ice Queen?

She had shriveled up, apparently. Disappeared, even.

But when her father's safety and her own freedom were both at risk, she found she had no other options. And so here she was.

She wished to Russia and back that she had just killed Bryce and left him in that alleyway in Atlanta—but it couldn't be helped now, she supposed. At least she was getting paid. And at least Sarah Walker would be safe. Free.

She cursed Bryce Larkin to hell as she opened her eyes and blinked at the ceiling of her hotel room. She rolled over in bed and ignored the early morning light coming in through the spaces between the pale green curtains. Staring at the wooden floors, the woman attempted to make sense of the muddled clump of thoughts trapped in her head.

Sarah started with the most obvious problem, and that was Charles Bartowski. Or Chuck, as Agent Larkin had called him when he briefed her in Atlanta.

Now there was a strange, yet undoubtedly interesting, fellow. A toy maker, indeed.

He was certainly not what she had expected after listening to Bryce speak of him.

The numerous times the spy had mentioned his boon companion, he had made him seem weak and ineffectual. Kind and thoughtful, and as a consequence, easily tread upon by others. A man who hid from conflict, avoided any factions of society which were distasteful to him, locking himself away in his bubble of naivety and childlike innocence.

Chuck was tall, just as Bryce had said. A brunette, yes. And he was lanky, just as she had expected. The photograph her blackmailer had shown her of Bartowski was from just before Bryce left for the Factory. When Bryce was eighteen and Chuck, sixteen.

Ten years had certainly changed Chuck Bartowski, but not in the way they had seemed to change Bryce Larkin. And perhaps that was what he meant when he said he wanted to protect Chuck from the world of espionage and government secrets.

Chuck had grown taller than he was in the photograph by a few inches at the very least. And she would not be human if she did not also notice that he filled his clothes out much better now than he had when he was sixteen.

But she had expected him to look every bit the sheltered inventor who locked himself away in his workshop all day long—uncombed hair, thick glasses, choice of clothing brimming on socially unacceptable, maybe even an inherent fear of the opposite sex. And while Chuck did have a mess of curls atop his head, he had none of the other traits she had expected.

Granted, he had been a tad awkward at first, reaching up to touch her face. She had a glimmer of remorse about slapping him when she saw his hand approaching. The poor fellow wasn't entirely himself after being grazed by the patrolman's bullet. But Sarah had never reacted well to being touched without giving permission. Even by dazed, harmless toy makers.

But the awkwardness had somehow morphed into self-deprecating humor, a tinge of wit, and certainly a great deal of sincerity. This, she was _not _prepared for.

He was very different from the boyish mechanic Bryce had described. And he seemed all too aware of the world around him. Hence the situation in which they met in the first place. It was quite the stunt he pulled and Sarah could not help but wonder what Bryce might have done if he had been there. Would he have scolded Chuck, perhaps treated him like the child he still thought he was?

She had arrived in Los Angeles having come up with absolutely no plan whatsoever. Except that she knew Chuck could never find out she was actually a con artist. Worse than that, she was a wanted criminal.

She had gone in with no plan of attack, really, except that she knew he could not find out who she really was, or that she was in any way connected with Bryce. He had given her those exact instructions before boarding the zeppelin more than a week before.

Sarah had been waiting outside of the Buy More, trying to decide whether she should walk in as a customer or just bide her time and act as his unseen bodyguard for a little while longer. But he made that decision for her when he came out of the Buy More with a look of barely controlled terror and equal parts confusion. She followed him immediately, curiosity her primary motivation.

If push came to shove, Sarah Walker was better at improvising than anyone else. It was a hassle, sure, and she preferred having a plan with a few back-ups in case the first went awry. But having a plan that ended up successful was a luxury in the con game, so she had learned how to roll with the punches.

Sarah was no fool, nor was she the type of woman who wasted her time with false modesty, unless the job called for it, of course. She knew she was strikingly beautiful. And she saw the way heads turned when she walked into a room, no matter what she was wearing or whose arm she was on. Her figure was exemplary, not too thin, with some curvature, but certainly not too much thanks to her exercise regiment at night before she went to sleep. Her startling blue eyes were her greatest asset, she thought. She could entrance any man or woman into believing anything she wanted them to, and if that didn't work, she always had her trusty knives strapped to various parts of her lower body, and more than often tucked into one of her sleeves. Those never failed her.

If she were honest with herself, she hadn't been entirely prepared for the immediacy of Chuck's need for protection. She had only been trailing him for a little over a minute when he had taken action to protect the boy thief from the patrolman's bullet. His heroic impulse shocked her so much that she'd had an uncharacteristically delayed reaction.

She was almost too late when she came up behind the patrolman who cornered Chuck and the thief in the alleyway. The bastard got his shot off but luckily she kicked the barrel of the rifle in time for his bullet to graze her charge's right shoulder instead of embedding itself in his chest.

The patrolman now lay dead in the back of a produce cart, and some merchant was in for a nasty surprise, but it was all Sarah had time for. She had to make sure Chuck was alright, and she had to make her move on him. The first rule in confidence artistry was to be quick—and cautious, of course—but quick all the same.

As annoyed as she was with him for taking on such a foolish endeavor, she was also mildly impressed. She saw Chuck's eyes move to the patrolman with his rifle trained on the little boy who had probably stolen nothing more than a bit of food. And so what? Anyone who had not had to steal food every so often when they were a child was either supremely rich or was absolutely lying. Hard times were everybody's plight. She couldn't even count how many times she had done just what that little boy did. And she wondered if Chuck had, too. He _was_ an orphan. Perhaps he had felt a stirring of empathy for the boy, if that was the case.

Sarah shook her head. That did not matter. What did matter was that the toy maker was either incredibly rash and idiotic, or he was much braver than Bryce could ever know. It was not that surprising that the egotistical bastard had gotten some things wrong about his friend. Especially if he had not seen him for years. Who really knew what Chuck Bartowski had been through to get where he was.

Chuck must have known there was a chance he might be shot when he leapt after the boy, or maybe he was so set on saving a life that he did it without thinking of the consequences.

Either way, it was foolishly heroic.

If this was a precursor to the kind of idiocy she would have to deal with, she really would kill Bryce.

Lord help her if Bartowski brushed up against the law all the time. Who knew how often he did things like this? Or if he was some sort of criminal himself?

Now that she thought of how wrong Bryce had gotten so many things, she wondered if she had somehow walked into something she could not handle. And if Sarah Walker could not handle a situation, it was bad. Very bad. Because she could handle just about anything.

Sarah rolled over and dragged her hands down her face. Then she got out of bed and walked to her trunk, hauling it open and lifting her clothes out, setting them in neat stacks to the side.

She lit a nearby gaslight on the wall and an array of knives, swords, pistols, rifles, and explosives shone up at her from where she hid them at the bottom of the trunk. One by one, she began taking them out to clean them.

With an asset that was apt to get into trouble, she would have to keep on her toes, and that meant having her weapons at the ready. God, this was already more difficult than she had thought. And she was angry about being blackmailed into babysitting _before_.

She put a light walking dress on over her slip, fastened her corset, and pulled her hair up behind her head again, not paying much mind to the tendrils falling out from the hairpins as she fastened a small top hat with a half veil of black lace on her head to cover some of it.

Off she went down the road to catch a trolley, her four throwing knives attached to the outsides of each thigh and a small pistol hidden in her drawstring purse hanging from her wrist, and another tucked beneath her corset.

It took about twenty minutes for her to reach the front door of the Buy More. It was a hot day and the sun was shining through the smoke layer and soot in the air, creating streams of light in which floating dust and exhaust from passing motorized vehicles could be seen.

She opened the door, her presence announced by the ringing of a dainty bell.

Sarah stopped short when she spotted a small android turn around from where it was shutting the glass face over the clock it must have just rewound. Her fingers laid over her corset where the tiny pistol pressed against her. After Bryce's absolute failure in knowing about Chuck, she was not taking anymore chances.

This must be Morgan. Bryce had warned her about Morgan, about its testy personality, if it could be called that since it was not human.

Morgan asked questions, Bryce had told her, and was protective of Chuck.

She had not thought it would resemble a human as much as it did. Save for the fact that its features were brass or some other form of metal, and the fact that you could not properly tell where its eyes were looking as they were brown glass balls pushed into the mannish face. Oddly enough, it wore a mustache and beard and a bowler cap. It also wore a tailored suit, a few decades out of fashion.

Who put facial hair on a machine man?

Bartowski was insane as well? _Lord give me strength_.

Not that she had ever done anything that would earn such a request to be granted, she thought to herself wryly.

But this was the strangest thing she could remember seeing, which was saying something for being a fugitive from the law. Perhaps she had misjudged Chuck Bartowski again, she thought tiredly. She wasn't in the mood to babysit a nut job.

"Yes, may I help you?" the giddy voice asked, Morgan rounding the counter and standing a proper five feet away from her, its hands clasped behind its back as it looked up at her.

"Uh—Uh, yes. I have this family heirloom…" She pulled the drawstrings open and pushed aside the tiny handgun to retrieve a locket and watch she had found on the side of the road in New York. She thought the broken thing might come in handy someday, and now it had.

"Heirloom? Heirloom." She could practically hear the gears in his—its head spinning. "Tomato?" the android asked. "Heirloom tomatoes. Miss, this is not a grocer. I will be happy to direct you to—"

Sarah raised an eyebrow. "No! No, not a tomato." She paused for a moment, holding up the watch between them and reading confusion in the emotionless face. Strange, that.

"Oh! Is that watch? Why did you not say watch?"

"It has been passed down—You know, never mind. I wonder, is your—"

The door behind the counter opened and Chuck stepped out, his sleeves rolled up above his elbows, his brown vest smeared with grease, his damp, curly hair popping up around the goggles he had pushed to the top of his head. A magnifying glass stretched from behind his ears to in front of his right eye.

"Morgan, how is it go…"

The voice drifted off as he flicked the magnifying glass away from his eye and spotted Sarah standing just to the side of his android. A slow smile started on his lips and grew into a full-fledged grin. Then, as if he remembered himself suddenly, it died down into a friendly but small smile. "Uh, Morgan…"

"Yes, I know," Morgan sighed in his lowest tone. "You want to be alone with the pretty lady."

"Morgan…" Chuck said in a sing-songy warning voice through his tenuous smile. He looked at Sarah again and let out a nervous laugh.

With another steamy sigh, the android moved past its creator and gave him what might have been a pointed glance before disappearing into the workshop. This was all too strange for the con woman. And for a moment, she thought she should just run away. Perhaps she could just stalk him for awhile, protect him from afar. Then she would not have to deal with all of this ridiculousness. An android that was too human to be comforting, for instance. And the weird man who built him—it.

"Morgan. Door."

The door slammed shut and Chuck winced. He turned back to shrug at the expectant young woman by the front door, his lips pressed together in a slightly dopey smile. "Well…you're here."

"I am."

He clambered to fully remove the magnifying glass from his head, wincing when it caught on his hair, and folded it up, shoving it into his pocket.

"What, uh—What are you doing here?" Consternation crossed his face and he held up a finger. "I mean, I mean—That was rude of me. It's just that I did not think I would ever see you again, what with the way you…disappeared on me yesterday."

Sarah bit her lip and looked away. "Yes, I apologize for that. I had a prior appointment and I realized I was late. I figured you were in good hands by then."

"No, that's—that's alright…" He raised both eyebrows in question.

"Sarah," she finished for him. She pondered for a moment about whether or not she should tell him about the smudge he had left on his forehead trying to remove the magnifying glass. No, she would save him the mortification. He seemed nervous enough as it was.

He smiled. "Sarah. I'm Chuck. Bartowski. Chuck Bartowski. And I _was_ in good hands." He gestured to his right arm. "Right as rain. All fixed up. It wasn't as bad as I originally thought."

He blushed at that and it was rather sweet.

She smiled. "Well, being shot is never enjoyable, really. So, I suppose I cannot blame you much."

"That is true. You also have to factor in my low threshold for pain."

His honesty was refreshing, albeit a bit self-deprecating for her tastes. She smiled wider, flashing her brilliant white teeth and turning on her best Sarah Walker charm. It made him falter a bit, his eyes glassy, his mouth opening and closing, the loud swallow…He gathered himself a bit, clearing his throat.

Well, at least _he _was human.

"So, what brings you here? I mean, how did you find me? There wasn't much time for exchanging names." He walked a bit closer and she pulled the drawstrings of her purse to shut it tightly. If he spotted the gun, there was no telling what he would assume; that she was a con artist, he could not guess immediately. No one would believe her if she stood on the street corner and yelled out "I'm a swindler" for all Los Angeles to hear. But he would know _something _was wrong. Even in a world in which a child would be shot at by a law man, a woman with a gun was irregular enough to warrant concern.

_Improvise_. "I went back after my appointment and found out who you were from one of the merchants along the street where it all happened."

"Mister Blandings? He makes amazing pigeon sandwiches. You should try one sometime. They are my favorite."

She tilted her head and smiled wider. She honestly could not have planned that better. "I'll have to try them. I was a bit preoccupied trying to find out about you to notice what he was selling."

He swallowed and crossed his arms, stepping a bit closer so that he was only two feet from her. The oil smudge was that much more apparent, as were his wide shoulders and the evident strength of his arms. "You wanted to know that badly?"

She raised an eyebrow, playing amused. "I wanted to make sure that you were alright. You seemed…a bit rattled. Terrified, even."

"I wouldn't say _terrified_. I-I mean, by then I was just…" He stopped and sighed, grinning again. His eyes dropped to the locket hanging from her fingers.

"Oh! I brought this along because…it's broken." She held it up. "I tried to explain it to…um, your…friend…"

"Morgan? Yes, he's…He has trouble, uh…"

"No, he was very nice. It's just that I, um, told him this was an heirloom and he thought I meant the tomato." She giggled, letting it dangle from her fingers between them.

Chuck grinned. "That—That's Morgan for you. I programmed as many dictionaries as I could into his memory box, but he gets a little confused when a word has more than one meaning. Unlike humans, he hasn't the ability to determine which word is used in different situations. You should have seen when a sailor came in here, wanting to buy a compass to install at the bow of his rig. Poor Morgan spent the entire time bowing at the waist…" He paused, looking into her eyes for a long while.

It was not _entirely_ uncomfortable, having him look at her like that. A little strange, of course. Chuck was not ogling, as other men seemed wont to do. It was strangely innocent, as though in that moment, he had ceased to be cognizant of where he was or what he was doing. She thought she might do him a service by ending it and cleared her throat.

"Would you be able to fix it?"

"Yes!" He snapped away from her gaze, blushing a bit and reaching out to take the locket in his hands. "Yes, of course! This should be an easy repair. Let me just pop it open and take a look." He fished in his pocket for the magnifying glass he had just taken off.

"Should I come back for it tomorrow? Or…another day…soon?" she added, purposefully tingeing is with a smidgeon of flirtatiousness.

Chuck's eyes widened a bit and lifted from the locket he had just popped open, meeting her blue-gray gaze. "You, uh—What? No. Not at all. I'm sure this will be an easy and quick fix. Maybe you could stay here while I work on it? You are more than welcome to. If you like. I mean."

"How long do you think it will take?" she asked, meaning to stay there anyways since he invited her. Either way, she would find a reason to stay at the Buy More, as she would not be able to protect him very well were she elsewhere.

"Not long! Not long at all. Maybe fifteen, twenty minutes?" He licked his lips, looking a bit like some sort of lizard with the goggles poised on his forehead, smashing his hair down against his head. "Of course, if you have someplace to be—"

"No, I don't. I will just wait here. There is plenty to look at." And there certainly was.

"Yes. Please, feel free to look around. I will be…" He started walking backwards towards the counter. "…over here. If you want to ask me anything. You know, if you have questions."

"Thank you." She bit back a laugh as he bumped into a table with knick-knacks on it. They tottered but thankfully stayed where they were. He blushed red and walked facing forwards back to his counter, setting the locket on the counter and popping the face of the clock inside open.

Sarah allowed herself a few moments to take in the sights and sounds of the Buy More.

It was a strange little place, filled with strange little toys and contraptions. Clocks lined the walls, carved from dark woods, light woods, some with intricate carvings and others simplistic and plain.

Six long, sturdy tables were set in two rows of three with a large aisle going down the middle, leading to the counter and display case. There were a few feet between each table to allow even the stoutest of shoppers to move comfortably around the shop floor.

On each table were knick knacks and whirly-gigs and strange little figurines with keys coming out of their backs, all posed differently—some stood up straight and others sagged wearily. Gadgets and gizmos lined the shelves along the walls, things she had never seen before in her life.

All at once, it gave her the shivers and awakened something in her that had been dormant for a long long time, something she couldn't remember ever experiencing before: a sense of wonderment. It was unsettling, to say the least, being surrounded by things she might have sold her only pair of shoes right off her little feet to have when she was a child.

She reached out and gently touched a tin owl that was as big as her thumb. Its little eyes were black as coal, but shimmering in the light streaming in from the large shop windows. As were the little gems inlaid into its wings, imitation of course, as Sarah Walker could spot an imitation stone from one hundred paces.

Oddly enough, she did not judge him for that. Unless he charged an arm and a leg for it. And then she felt like a hypocrite, because she really had no call to blame him even then. She thieved on a daily basis. And more than that. While he was trying to run an honest business in a dishonest world.

"How much is the owl?" she found herself asking a bit distractedly as she very carefully lifted its wing. It was as light as…well, a feather. Surprising, considering it was made of metal.

When he did not answer, she furrowed her brow and turned away from the majestic little owl to peer over at the counter where he had been fixing her pocket watch. He stood behind the counter, the odd magnifying glass he had been wearing earlier fastened over his eye again. But instead of being hunched over the watch as she had been expecting, he was standing at his full height, his eyes locked on her, his features a bit dazed. One might call his look…dreamy…if one were predisposed to that sort of romantic tomfoolery.

Sarah Walker, the Ice Queen, was not, so she just raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips in outward amusement.

He must have realized what he was doing then, because his mouth snapped shut and his eyes refocused. Chuck looked down, his ears turning so red they could almost be classified as being fuchsia. "You just spoke to me, didn't you?"

"I did."

"Would you mind terribly if I asked you to repeat what you said?" He still wasn't looking at her, instead having gone back to the watch, his ears in what looked to be in a permanent state of floridity.

"Oh, no. Not at all." For a split second, she flirted with the prospect of teasing him. He had definitely been staring at her and while it was nothing new to have a man ogle her, she didn't want to call what she had caught him doing ogling, as much as he just seemed stunned by her. As though he was trying to figure out how she even existed in the first place.

He was simply a problem solver.

It was a new type of flattery, one that lacked sliminess or ulterior motive, and instead was innocent and sincere. Because Sarah didn't quite know how to receive a compliment of that nature, she plastered a smile on her face and fingered the owl's wing again. "How much are you charging for the owl?"

"Oh! Do you want him?" The toymaker—and human vessel for all of the government's intelligence and secrets, Sarah's conscience reminded her, since it seemed to be so easy to forget with this man—whipped the magnifying contraption off his head, wincing when it caught again on an errant curl (did he never learn?), hustled around the counter, and stepped onto the main floor, hurrying to her side but stopping with an appropriate distance between them.

"Him? Could it not be a her?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

He looked confused for a moment, and then he grinned, as though he was laughing at himself along with her. It caught her off-guard. She had expected him to take her seriously, and maybe blush or stutter some more. "It could be whatever you want. And it's yours."

That made her head snap in his direction. "Pardon? Oh. No, please, Mr. Bartowski. I was only asking because I was curious."

"In that case…" He picked it up and turned it over so that she could see where he had inked the price on a tag and stuck it to the bottom of the base. He wasn't swindling his customers at all. But of course not. Why would he? And why was she actively trying to find things wrong with him? What would that help?

"That's how much it is. And it's still yours." He turned his warm eyes on her, standing so close that she had to steel herself to keep from taking a step back.

"No, please. I cannot accept it."

"Then think of it as thanks for coming to my aid the other day. Even though I was embarrassingly yellow over the whole ordeal, you were very kind. If you do not want the owl, pick something else."

She just shook her head resolutely. She did not need a silly little metal keepsake as thanks. She still had Bryce's money that he had given her in Atlanta a few weeks before. His shoulders seemed to sag a little as he gave in with a sigh.

"But…there is something," she said quietly, looking up at him through her lashes.

Sarah had gone over it again and again in her mind. It was not enough that she lived near Chuck's home that he shared with his sister and brother-in-law, and it was not enough that she had procured work only a block away from the Buy More. She had to be near him to protect him, which meant she needed a reason to be by his side, to cling a bit perhaps. The only way she could think of doing this was to feign romantic interest, or to procure his, at the very least.

The latter part of that had apparently been accomplished, if the moony eyes he had when he looked at her meant anything, but she had to persuade him of her own interest and that would be the difficult part.

Granted, it would not be as difficult as all that, she thought to herself with an inward smirk. Out of the wide pool of gentlemen (and non-gentlemen, it had to be said) she had to charm over the years, Bartowski was leaps and bounds better than most. And already, he was better than Agent Larkin. Or at least…easier.

"Something? W-Would you prefer maybe a—" He stumbled a bit, obviously reluctant to wager a guess as to what she might like to purchase, in case he might offend her. She had to hand it to the toy maker. He was much more socialized than Bryce had led her to believe.

"No, no. Please, stop offering to gift me things from your shop, Mr. Bartowski." She smiled a bit sheepishly to lessen the firmness of her tone, hoping he did not think her affronted or put off by his gesture. As desperate as it was.

"At least allow me to not charge you for repairing your watch." She would have been annoyed by his persistence, but something in the way he smiled a bit wincingly made her realize he knew how frustrating he was being. He was meeting her stubbornness with some of his own. It was an oddly satisfying realization. And she suddenly caught herself looking forward to…well…_something_. She did not quite know what.

The Ice Queen had to take a moment to regroup, and then she narrowed her eyes a bit teasingly, the corners of her lips turned up. "Alright, then, Mr. Bartowski. You can have this one. But I cannot promise I'll back down so easily the next time."

Bartowski smiled slowly until his teeth shone in an outright grin. She allowed herself to study his unguarded expression and wondered how often he had gotten people to do things for him with it. Or perhaps he was the type of man who did not know the strength of his charms. Which made it all the worse for his victims, she reasoned.

_Two can play at that game._

Suddenly, the grin dimmed and his eyes widened a bit, his features slack. Somehow he managed to swallow and clear his throat at the same time. "_Glrrm_. You'll pardon me for asking, Miss…"

"Walker." Well, there it was. She supposed she had no reason to use anything other than Sarah Walker. It would be easier that way. And perhaps safer. Well, maybe not safer. But it was too late now. Anyhow, what was the phrase? Hiding in plain sight?

Nevertheless, she felt a little spike of nerves at how it had come out without preamble, without even an extra thought on her part.

"Miss Walker." He smiled a bit again and it was so easy and warm that she wondered if he was slapping on an extra coat of charm for her benefit. No one was this sincere, this innocently agreeable. It just was not possible. "But you said you won't back down so easily next time. I wonder what it is you mean by that. Because I'm not so sure I can afford to make this offer again. I have a business to run, after all."

The con woman gaped for a moment and took in the tentative smile he wore, as though he was not quite so sure how well his bon mot would be received.

And then she laughed, watching his shoulders sag a little in relief, and the tentative smile became a laughing grin. "You are a mechanic, a hero, _and _a comedian, Mr. Bartowski. I must admit I am impressed."

He seemed incredibly pleased by this, and perhaps even a bit taken aback. "My sister would correct you there and say I _like_ to think I am a comedian, but in actuality I am not. And then she would admonish you not to encourage me."

She let out another soft laugh. "Hm. Well. She may have a point there."

Chuck Bartowski grinned again, then sobered a bit, his eyes snapping as though something had just occurred to him. "But we've digressed. You said there was something I could do for you? Besides the watch. And I won't back down on that, Miss Walker."

Sarah shook her head. "I've already folded, Sir, where the watch is concerned. I told you. No, this is entirely different, in fact." She paused, then tilted her head, her eyes fastened on the top most button of his white shirt poking out from beneath his brown vest. She put on her best shy smile, peeking up at him through her lashes. "You see, I've just arrived in Los Angeles recently. As such, I know almost nothing about it. Or how to even get around."

"Oh! I had no idea! Welcome!" he chirped in a pleasant and friendly gesture.

"Thank you." Sarah paused for a moment, biting her lip in a way that conveyed nerves. "I grew up in a small town and I am not used to the hustle and bustle of city life. I thought perhaps I might look to you for guidance, Mr. Bartowski."

He did not respond at first, instead looking at her as though she had suddenly sprouted fangs. It was clear Charles Irving Bartowski was not the type of man who regularly associated with women, his sister excepted.

"I know you must be very busy, what with the Buy More and your…er…machine…friend."

"Morgan…?" was all he seemed capable of muttering, his voice breathless and wispy.

"Yes." Sarah paused again. "I hope you don't think I would force you to escort me around the city. I only thought, as I know no one else in the city as of yet—"

"No!" he interrupted, apparently surprising even himself, as he nearly yelped, covering his mouth with his hand.

"Pardon?" she tried.

He winced and lowered his hand, sending her an apologetic look.

"I'm terribly sorry. Yes, I mean." Chuck shook his head. "I'm afraid, Miss Walker, you caught me by surprise. I-I don't—Uh," he shook his head, "I've decided not to say that. Instead, I'll just say that I would like nothing better than to introduce you to my city. Well, it isn't _my _city. It is _a _city. The city of Los Angeles. And I grew up here. Was raised here. I—" He stopped. Perhaps the wide eyed look on her face clued him in on the fact that he was rambling. In fact, he was in outright shambles.

Chuck brought his hands up in front of his mouth and pressed them together in a steeple. Suddenly, he began to laugh, ducking his head and running a hand over his curls. "Are you quite sure you want to risk being seen in public with an unholy mess of a fellow like me?" he asked, still chuckling. "I promise I am capable of constructing sentences in the English language with proper amounts of fluidity and…I'm not helping myself at all, am I?"

Sarah laughed. "You aren't so bad, Chuck Bartowski. Although, if you end up buying me dinner, I may require you escort me sans oil smudge on your chin."

His ears burned as he frantically brought his bicep up to rub at his chin with his shirt, doing little else than dirtying his sleeve. The smudge was still staining his skin.

She giggled. "I didn't mean to embarrass you. I think it's rather fetching, in fact." She fished in the bodice of her dress and pulled out a white lace kerchief. With as much grace as she could muster, she stepped a bit closer and wiped at the dark spot on his chin. "It gives you character."

She knew there was a risk she would scare him into a shell, being this familiar with him. Or perhaps he might run in the other direction. But she must have judged him correctly, for he stayed put and even tilted his head back a bit to make it easier for her. He _was _blushing quite a bit though and his features were decidedly bashful.

Sarah made a mental note of Chuck's apparent lack of disdain for a woman who was forward. Not that this was _so_ forward. She chalked it up to his growing up with his sister, who was apparently a force to be reckoned with by her own right. Any woman willing to turn society on its head, even going so far as to attempt to change the law in order to accomplish her career aspirations, was certainly a formidable creature.

"I wasn't aware I required more character," he teased, causing her to rock back on her heels and smile at him.

"There." She made to tuck the kerchief back in her bodice, but he stopped her by reaching out. His fingers hovered a few centimeters from her wrist.

"Please, let me have this cleaned for you. And I'll return it tonight?" Sarah found herself gaping a bit and he backtracked quickly. "I didn't mean to presume. When I said tonight. Any night. Or day, even. I have an assistant now." Sarah opened her mouth to speak, but he rushed on, lifting a finger. "He's human."

Sarah Walker bit her cheek to keep from laughing again. This was proving much more interesting than she had bargained for. "Tonight will be fine, Mr. Bartowski." _For a start_, she added silently. And perhaps by then she would be better prepared for the disarming personality of the Intersect.

* * *

**A/N: **Ho hooo! The next chapter is going to be SO MUCH FUUUUUUN. You guys don't even know.

I'm not sure I even know.

LEAVE ME A REVIEW THOUGH! I love them.


	11. Everybody Polka!

**A/N: **I don't say this very often, mis compadres, pero this has to be one of my favorite chapters so far. And I'm just a bit proud of it. I must be because LOOK AT THE SIZE OF IT. LOOK AT IT. It's a monster. It verily is. If you guys hate it, don't even tell me. Because I will surely cry. Sob, even. I revamped it, elongated it, added some punch (spiked punch, if you _must_ know), and I am just really happy with it.

That being said, to everyone who has read, reviewed, sent me messages and/or tweets, I am so grateful to every single one of you. I cannot say it enough, so I will just keep saying it. Constantly. Over and over. Repeatedly. Again and again. TIRED YET?

**Summary: **In 1776, George Washington declared himself King of the United States of America and began turning a new nation into the United States Empire: expanding to the west, amassing colonies and gaining power. Over one hundred years later, the government's secrets are at risk and a new way to keep them safe must be created. When those secrets are accidentally brought to inventor and toy maker Chuck Bartowski's doorstep, his future becomes uncertain as his life fills with adventures, hardships, and even a bit of romance.

**Disclaimer:** "Chuck" is not mine. Its characters are not mine. Though they might as well be, considering how often I think about them.

Last time in the SteamVerse: Sarah Walker, the Ice Queen, had her steampunk Disney princess moment (thanks to **Arya's prayers** for that particular description) in the Buy More, surrounded by gadgets and gizmos a'plenty. "Look at this stuff. Isn't it _neat_?"

And good ol' toy maker Chuck asked her out on a date. You _go_! Granted, she had to nudge him a bit. That's alright, though. It happens. It's _Sarah_ after all. That is kind of her thing.

But what will happen on this date? You don't know! You have to read it! I don't know! Well, I do know. But I'm going to discover it again with you!  
Let's ride! ...or read. Rather.

* * *

A Chuck straightened his tie and propped his boater over his curls, he hoped he looked more like Charles Irving Bartowski the Gentleman, rather than Chuck the Toy Maker. Or Chuck the Mechanic. Or even Chuck the Inventor.

The more he looked in the mirror, though, the more he second guessed the tie and thought he might borrow his brother-in-law's cravat. But was the cravat too much? What was more, if he did go downstairs to borrow the cravat, his sister would stall him another half hour asking for every last detail about Sarah Walker. ("How did you meet her? Is she pretty? Not that it matters at all. What does she do? Is she a suffragette?")

He could not afford to answer all of those questions. It would cause him to be late and he especially did not want to start things off on the wrong foot with Sarah Walker.

Chuck could not put his finger on it, but there was something about her besides her celestial beauty that made her exceptional. He hoped he might discover what it was tonight.

Swallowing a bit nervously, he fixed the sleeves of his suit jacket, ran his hands down his front, and hurried out of his room, moving as quietly as possible down the stairs. He snuck past the living room window of the Woodcomb residence and hurried down the street. It took fifteen minutes of walking at a brisk pace to get to the bus stop where he agreed to meet the lovely Miss Walker.

As she had indicated she was not familiar with how to get around the city, Chuck suggested they take public transportation to help her familiarize herself with the routes. He promised her an adventure, which is why he realized now how foolish a cravat would have been. No, his black tie was the perfect accessory to his dark brown suit, tweed vest, and boater.

Chuck approached the omnibus waiting area with a bit of a skip in his step, his nerves dissipating as his confidence increased. There wasn't even a smidge of a smudge on his clothes, face or hands. A beautiful woman had asked him to give her a tour of the city. _Him._

And by golly, as strange as it was that a woman as beautiful as Sarah Walker might ask him of all people, he would embrace the opportunity with both arms wide open. He was not going to let nerves or inexperience in courting bring him down.

Although thinking about his inexperience in courting did cause a spike in his nerves.

In an effort to distract himself, the young man peered up at the zeppelin slicing through the smoke in the sky over head, its steam engine humming in the night air, the propellors beneath its belly spinning madly, its nose tipping upward as it ascended, moving away from the port where it had taken off.

As a boy, Chuck had always imagined the great flying aircraft that loomed over the Los Angeles skyline were massive creatures with living brains and hearts who adhered to the command of their masters, the pilots. They were gargantuan mammals, like the sea creatures called whales that he had seen in picture books. They were magnificent whales that swam through the sky instead of the ocean.

He used to wonder what would happen if one of them decided to mutiny against its captain and just fly up, up, up…past the smoke layer, through the clouds, and straight into the sun.

Chuck shook his head with a small, sardonic smile. Forcefully yanking himself out of his own head, he strolled to the nearest lamppost, tipped his hat to an elderly woman passing by clutching her burgundy carpet bag in a metallic, makeshift hand. Her great coat covered her arm, but it was more than likely manmade as well. She gave him a brass-toothed grin before facing forward again and determinedly hobbling by to go about her business.

Fishing his watch from his vest pocket, he saw that he was three minutes earlier than their meeting time.

The night was clearer than it had been for many days and he took it as a good omen. Unobscured moonlight was said to be just the thing for romance, because it was such a rarity. The smoke layer usually dimmed it, leaving the streets to be lit primarily by lamps, even on nights with a full moon.

As he let out a long breath, his eyes dropped from the dark blue sky and the black zeppelin sailing through it to peer down the sidewalk.

His gaze immediately latched onto the stunning woman who stuck out in a crowd far more easily than anyone he had ever met in his life. Sarah Walker met his eye and smiled quite cheerfully. There was a glint of something in her gaze that he couldn't place, a bit of mystery that sent a thrill through him.

It had dissipated by the time she gracefully came to a stop beside him. "Good evening, Mr. Bartowski. What a fine hat that is."

He blushed. Upon casting a cursory glance her way, Chuck took in her black riding skirt with gentle ruffles sweeping along the sides and the matching, fitted blazer with a wide lapel and turned up collar, buttoned over a white blouse. Oddly enough, she wore no hat, and instead piled her vibrant hair in an elegantly messy (for he truly could think of no other way to describe it) bun behind her head, leaving meticulous blond wisps of hair to frame her face.

An interesting cameo brooch was situated on the lace over her throat, drawing his eyes to the graceful, unblemished skin of her long neck and finally to Miss Sarah Walker's face. The very same face he had been thinking of all afternoon and part of the evening.

"Good evening," he chirped with what he knew was a giant grin. He would not be able to wipe it off of his face if he tried.

He swept his hat off of his head and looked at it, turning it over in his hands. "Uh, and thank you. It keeps my head warm."

She giggled lightly but it was overtaken by a cacophony of sound. The omnibus they were awaiting pulled up, clanking noisily, huffing and puffing as it pulled up next to the waiting area. It was a horseless contraption run on steam and absolute luck.

And as it stopped, the thing spewed steam and sank closer to the ground. It reminded the toy maker of the time he was chased by one of the mistresses at the orphanage, her hefty middle and advanced age slowing her pace significantly so that by the time she caught up with him and stopped, she deflated a bit like a faulty weather balloon, her breath wailing out of her in a pained, angry groan.

Chuckling in amusement at the memory, he held the fare for both Sarah Walker and himself in his palm and made to walk up to the vehicle, but found the space beside him empty. As he turned around with a puzzled look on his face, he saw that his companion for the night had not budged an inch, and was in fact staring at the omnibus as though it had reared up from the track on its hind wheels and tipped its hat to her with a jaunty "Howdy-doo".

"Miss Walker?" he tried. "Are you alright?"

She shook her head a little and looked at him through her eyelashes. "You aren't making me climb onto that thing? Truly?" Her tone made it sound as though she was hoping to goodness this was some sort of joke and he would lead her to a horse-drawn omnibus instead.

Chuck inwardly chuckled. She certainly was not accustomed to the city, as New York, the District, Chicago, San Francisco, and Boston were all moving toward primarily steam-powered public transportation rather than relying on the horse-drawn variety. "I won't force you if you feel uncomfortable. But I _was _planning on taking you on the steamnibus. Rather like an adventure, don't you think?"

She gave the heaving contraption a dubious side-eye, then pushed her shoulders back and raised her chin a bit haughtily. "Alright, then, Mr. Bartowski. Since tonight is about adventure, I suppose we may as well start now."

His heart beat faster when she flashed him an excited, but slightly nervous grin. It turned into a mischievous smirk when he offered her his arm. He had to take a deep breath to settle himself as he escorted her to the front door of the bus, because they had only just begun the night and he was already feeling like he was way out of his depth with this woman.

And Chuck Bartowski wasn't much of a swimmer.

She grabbed the front of her riding skirt, hiked it up, and climbed the steps with inherent grace in spite of the shaking vehicle beneath her. Chuck followed quickly behind, dropping both of their fares in the proper receptacle before guiding her towards the back where there was one seat left.

Sarah spent the next few minutes of the ride sitting, clutching onto the arm rest for dear life with one hand and trying to keep her hair neat with the other. Chuck stood beside her, his arms wrapped around the pole, his hat bouncing around on his head. He attempted multiple times to smile down at Miss Walker as the steamnibus jolted down the road, greatly disturbing its occupants, but Chuck nearly bit his tongue straight off and decided not to repeat the gesture again.

Once he even caught Miss Walker trying not to laugh at the gentleman across the aisle attempting to read his paper. He had already torn the thing clean in half after a particularly nasty bump.

They finally disembarked at their stop, the smell of the docks drifting in through the open windows of the vehicle. Chuck's legs felt a bit leaden after the steamnibus ride, but he kept a close eye on Sarah to see if she was alright. When she stepped down, she had to adjust her skirt, jacket, and hair. But then she turned back to look at him expectantly. "The docks?"

"Yes, I thought we might fish for our dinner." He waited for her to gape or start or anything other than what he got, which was an amused smirk. "You are not very easy to tease, Miss Walker."

"Oh, were you teasing?"

Chuck's eyes bugged and he made a soft choking sound, then covered his mouth with his hand. He shook his head at her with a sheepish smile when she laughed softly. "Alright, you win. We are not here to fish. But I do have one question for you." She raised her eyebrows in response. "Do you like pies?"

He realized belatedly that he should have asked before he brought her here. He might improvise something else if she didn't like pies. Because at Mother Harriet's, the entertainment and atmosphere were worth eating even a terrible pie. It was just an extra treat that her pies were the best in Los Angeles.

"Fruit pies?"

"Any and all pies."

"I love pies."

Relieved, Chuck grinned and offered his arm for her to take again, leading her the block and a half towards the nearby pier. Mother Harriet's Pies sat at the end of it, part of the run-down but still charming building jutting off the edge, supported by massive wooden beams caked in black mussels. The sloped roof of the restaurant was covered with piles of seaweed and smears of bird droppings. The wooden walls were almost slanted, as though the place was going to collapse into the bay at any moment.

Even from fifty paces away, before even stepping onto the wooden pier, they could hear music blaring out of the wide open glass windows. It was some sort of jaunty tune and in spite of his lack of dancing abilities, Chuck couldn't help but walk with a bit of a bounce to his step.

Sarah Walker didn't seem as impressed as he was, but she had not been inside yet. And she had not had one of Mama H's pies. So far his stunning companion had proved herself game for a good number of things.

For instance, during the bumpy trip over, Sarah had given up her seat to an elderly woman and had to cling to the pole Chuck had been holding onto as he reached up to clutch the leather strap hanging from the roof of the vehicle. As they stood rather close together, Chuck decided to strike up a game.

"Miss Walker, would you do me the honor of looking over my right shoulder at the gentleman in the bowler sitting directly behind the driver?"

"The man with the quizzical brow and caterpillar over his mouth?" she asked out of the side of her mouth. Not that anyone could hear them anyways with the noisy clattering of the steamnibus.

Chuck laughed and nodded. "Give me a number."

He thought perhaps he had been taking a risk dragging Sarah Walker onto the foreign steamnibus in the first place, but she had taken it in stride. Then he wondered if he was taking another risk playing this game with her, but when she immediately teased about the man's overly bushy mustache, he felt all of the tension leak from him.

"Seventy-three."

He raised an eyebrow. "Oddly specific." She beamed and he felt a little hot under his collar. "Alright. Seventy-three. Good number." With a surreptitious glance over his shoulder at the man he had pointed out, he pursed his lips and turned back to her, leaning closer to her but still keeping an appropriate distance between them. "Our friend has exactly seventy-three hairs on his head under that hat."

She threw her head back and laughed. It was a magnificent sound, echoing off the walls of the bus, causing a few grumpy passengers to glare at her over their bifocals. Pleased at the way she didn't even bother acknowledging the nasty looks, he laughed himself.

"Alright, I think I see how the game is played. Numbers, is it?"

"Or colors."

"Colors? Hmm."

She narrowed her eyes and bit her lip. The young toy maker had to look away for a moment, afraid he would be caught with some sort of look on his face that he could not control. She was truly beautiful, and thrilling to be near. "Give me a color, then, Mr. Bartowski."

"Magenta." His answer was so immediate that she wrinkled her nose and smirked. It was so endearing that he almost said so, then blushed when he had to bite his tongue to keep it inside, covering the entire array of emotions with a shrug.

"The color of his unmentionables under that fashionable tweed suit," she chirped.

His uninhibited laughter (and it had to be said, the vibrant flush of his cheeks and ears) lasted for a good five minutes.

And now they approached the entrance of Mother Harriet's Pies. It was a set of dingy green doors, the paint chipped away by the harsh sea air. A fishing net hung above the door, wooden fish threaded through it.

"Allo, Mista Bartowski," the Brit at the front door greeted, tipping his gold colored bowler hat at the pair and flashing a set of gold capped teeth.

"Evening, Goldy," Chuck shot back, shaking the other fellow's hand. He saw the genuine surprise in the older man's green eyes when he looked to Miss Walker, then obvious appraisal, an attempt to cover it up, and finally a wink in Chuck's direction.

The young man couldn't help but clear his throat at the implications that resided in that wink and instead guided Sarah through the doors Goldy opened for them.

They stepped into the restaurant slowly.

There was a bit of a crowd, but nothing unruly, thankfully. Chuck had been to Mama H's on truly terrible nights. Gangsters and thugs alike fighting, drinking, causing trouble for the waiting staff. Those situations were cleared up by Mama H herself, usually, who would come out of the kitchen waving a knife covered in pig blood. That tended to settle the crowd immediately.

The band onstage finished their song and raucous applause followed, lasting even after the band bowed and cleared the small stage.

In front of the stage were numerous tables with black cloths draped over them. A massive, dusty chandelier hung from the ceiling directly in the middle, the gaslight emitted from the lamps on the walls and the candles at each table glinting off the crystals and casting interesting lights all over the room, like tiny dancing spirits. The wood floors were dented and chipped. They had taken advertisement posters and layered them along every inch of the walls, creating a makeshift wallpaper, over which they hung steel clocks of all shapes and sizes, and even a few oil paintings with themes that paralleled the dark interior of the restaurant.

The waiters maneuvering through the tables wore shoddy maroon suits with fishing hooks jabbed into the sleeves.

They were led to a table further away from the stage and Chuck insisted she take the chair facing the entertainment. The menu had meat pies and fruit pies alike and he was surprised and mildly impressed when Miss Walker ordered a slice of apricot pie "to begin with". Their waiter was a thin young man with a thick waxed mustache curled at the ends and a friendly pair of violet eyes, and he looked more than happy to get the beautiful young miss any type of pie she desired, and then some.

"A dessert pie for supper, Miss Walker?" Chuck asked once the waiter reluctantly left their side.

"Is there something wrong with that? Food is food, I always say."

A slow grin started on his face until he feared his jaw might crack. Chuck found himself sincerely boggled by how much he liked her. "I have to admit, you have just made me a little ashamed for ordering a meat pie."

"Oh I'm sure your meat pie will be delightful. Especially because it's pig."

He snorted, pinked when she raised her eyebrows teasingly, and turned around to face the stage as applause sounded.

A tall, thin man wearing a bowler cap and a tight-fitting black suit with coattails strode out onto the stage, holding his hands up for quiet. He wore a wily grin beneath his thin black mustache with its ends curled. And he had a monocle propped in front of his right eye.

"We havin' a lady tonight, Jack?!" one of the audience members bellowed.

Onstage, Jack smirked at the disruptive fellow. "If it's a lady you want, Bub, Madame H is in the kitchen and she would be _happy_ to sing you a song." As he swiped his thumb across his throat slowly, the men in the house guffawed and clapped in an uproar of drunken glee.

"Mother Harriet's is proud to present, from New Orleans, Louisiana, Gadget Gil and his Orchestrioperatic Wonder!" The host swept his arm out as the curtains opened, and he backed off of the stage and onto the wings.

A wooden, box-like contraption that stood about six and a half feet tall and seven feet wide sat in the middle of the stage. There were sliding panels, one on each side, and in the center was a glass case in which resided what looked like an organ pipe chest, a harpsichord rail, two drums and two cymbals. Mounted in front of the pipe chest were metal bell bars, a tambourine, and a triangle.

Gadget Gil, a middle-aged bearded man wearing a fine silk suit of purple, a matching purple top hat, and an off-white cravat, slid the wooden panels open to reveal two large cylindrical rolls of parchment with rectangular holes punched in it. A few of the ratty gents in the front let out an 'oooo' and an 'aaahh' to mock the inventor on the stage, but received only a wink and a tap of the side of his nose with a gloved finger as he stepped up to face the audience.

"Would any of you handsome devils in the front here like to participate in the demonstration?" Gadget Gil asked, smoothing a hand down his beard a bit mysteriously.

Chuck stole a glance over his shoulder at Sarah Walker and met her gaze as it dropped from the stage to him. He smiled a little and received a grin back. His heart all aflutter, he turned back to the stage to watch as a man about his age stood up from his table, straightened his expensively cut suit, and swaggered up the side steps onto the stage. The man's friends let out cat calls that probably weren't entirely appropriate with a lady like Sarah Walker present, but he thought it might be even more offensive for him to say anything about it. She was a grown woman and she would make it known if she was bothered.

"Have you a coin, young sir?"

The volunteer seemed a bit put out having to cough up a coin, a coin that probably belonged to his parents in the first place, but he fished in his trouser pocket until he produced a small bit of brass. He handed the coin over and was thanked by Gadget Gil, who proceeded to then walk back to his Orchestrioperatic Wonder.

With an excited grin, he waved the volunteer off the stage, causing the toy maker in the back of the room to chuckle a little, along with some of the other audience members. The young swell was most certainly used for his coin and did not look very pleased about it.

Gadget Gil dropped the coin in a small slot beside the glass case of the machine, pulled a large lever, and stepped completely off the stage.

There was a soft clicking noise, the clanking of the coin moving through the machine, and then the cranking sounds of gears moving in the body of the large box. Suddenly a jaunty tune blasted from the box, the keys of the harpsichord bouncing up and down as though an invisible man were playing. At the end of the tango-like bar of music, the cymbals clashed so suddenly that everyone in the audience jumped. Laughter rolled across the room when the drums joined in, the mallets banging against the tight skin of the drums. The laughter increased when the music paused just in time for the metal stick to hit the triangle just perfectly, before the harpsichord swept in again.

Chuck had somehow managed to turn his chair towards the stage without realizing it, he was so entertained by the Orchestrioperatic Wonder. When he chanced a short glance over his shoulder at Miss Walker, she was looking right at him, her blue eyes shining in the lamplight, her lips turned up in a soft smile.

It was a little unsettling and he wondered how long she had been watching him, or if it was just a coincidence that they had looked at each other at the exact same time. But there was something about her, a bit of mystery veiled by wit and sweetness. It drew him to her while making him a little nervous at the same time.

Her eyes flicked up to the stage as she grinned at him, and he took the hint. _Watch the show, Bartowski._

As exciting as the wondrous mechanical orchestra box was, it had nothing on the power of the beautiful woman sitting behind him. But he turned back to the stage anyways.

Suddenly, the music slowed and two panels that Chuck had not seen before at the top of the machine slid open to reveal two heads, both brass and having rudimentary human features. One wore a woman's hat with a ribbon hanging down past its chin, and the other wore a bowler cap and had a dark, bushy mustache above its lips. The eyes of both heads opened simultaneously but had no pupils or human-like qualities. It was a bit creepy, Chuck had to admit.

But nothing could have prepared him for what came next.

The woman machine's jaw opened with a soft creak and the audience was silent, the music fading in a diminuendo until a heavenly, albeit tinny soprano came straight out of its mouth.

A sharp pain suddenly seized Chuck's head for just a moment, causing him to grasp at his trousers on his thigh, gritting his teeth. He saw the projected images behind his eyelids. A strange looking machine about the size of a household sewing machine with a large metal horn coming out of the top, a gloved hand turning the crank on the side. A regal-looking fellow speaking into a small cup with some wire attached to it. A man asleep in an armchair next to the same type of crank device, the cup with wires loosely griped in his hand on his lap. And then a close up of the man's throat where burning red rope marks mottled his skin and broke his neck.

When Chuck sat up straight again, he blinked repeatedly, the cacophonous sounds of the room coming crashing back to him and almost knocking from his seat. The male machine had since begun singing, accompanying the soprano singer with a tenor voice. When had that started? And where had he just been? What had he just seen?

He felt something squeeze his arm and whipped around. Sarah pulled her hand away from him quickly, as though she had been burned. "Ch—Mister Bartowski, are you quite alright? You look white as a sheet," she said, leaning close over the table.

The depth of concern in her tone and in her eyes was what finally shook him out of his stupor. "I-Yes. I'm terribly sorry, Miss Walker. I had a sudden ache in my head. The lighting in here gets to me sometimes."

She did not seem very convinced, but did the polite thing and nodded with a smile.

The music finally died down and the audience roared their applause, becoming even louder when the inventor stepped onto the stage in a blur of purple pride. The curtain shut and the riotous sound of the room lessened to the typical din.

Chuck turned his chair to face his companion and found that both of their pies were sitting in front of them, similar wisps of steam rising from the delicious-smelling food.

"How in the world do you suppose he got those heads to sing that way? I wasn't expecting it," she said conversationally, gracefully opening her napkin with a quick flick of her wrist and placing it in her lap, before digging into her generous portion of apricot pie.

"There is a phonograph behind the music box—or perhaps inside, I couldn't quite tell—which records a voice by speaking into a receiver, traps the voice in a glass bulb called a diaphragm, and a few odds and ends are fiddled with and replaced, which allows the voice to be played out of the horn mounted on top of the phonograph," Chuck answered without preamble, and a bit mechanically, so that he hardly even knew what he was saying until it came out of his mouth.

Chuck and Miss Walker blinked at the same time, and then she uttered a soft, "Oh." She ate another mouthful of pie, then smiled at the still befuddled toy maker. "Well, you seem familiar with the ins and outs of the, er, phonograph, was it? Have you made one before?"

"Never in my life." Her brow furrowed at that. "I mean I—I read about it. In books. I'm afraid no one but the queen, the royal family, and our state politicians would be able to afford such a contraption. I certainly could never." He shook his head, a bit in awe of his knowledge. Truth be told, he had heard tales of devices which were capable of projecting music, but never had he read books about it as he had just told Sarah Walker. Nor did he know anything about a 'phonograph'.

After the series of images that had flashed through his mind—as he was sure that was what it had been now, another 'flash'—he knew that phonographs were a large part of counter-terrorism measures that were used by the Imperial Bureau of Machinery and Defense. The man dead in his armchair, a phonograph beside him—he must have been speaking into it, recording something, when he was strangled to death by a rope. A rope someone had been holding. Was he an agent with IBoMaD? Or was he one of the terrorists?

"How would Gadget Gil be able to afford a phonograph? He is none of those things."

"When he was a young man, Gadget Gil—or Agent Gilbert Jamison as he was called then—was involved in some of the most secretive government intelligence circles in the world. He was dishonorably discharged after stealing a bit of extra payment from a drop in Jersey straight out of the case he was handing off. Seems Gadget Gil took something else from his employers on his way out. Probably a bit of extra compensation."

"Really?" There was something in her eyes, something that made him wary for a moment. Hunger, or perhaps just insatiable curiosity. He shook his head a little as he realized what he had just said.

"No. I-I am teasing," he lied a bit poorly. "Quite convincing though. It's most likely plausible. Though I suppose I read too many penny dreadfuls in my free time." He chuckled a bit nervously and she seemed to laugh it off, the unsettling desire for information gone from her beautiful features as they both settled in to eat again.

"Well, you have an imagination," she replied. "And I think that's important, especially for a man in your line of work."

"This is true."

"If you had the money, would you be able to make a phonograph, do you think, Mr. Bartowski?" she finally asked a few minutes of companionable silence later.

"I'm not sure I could. Though I have never thought about it before. I have built music boxes. You know, for jewelry. You pop the lid open like so and a sweet, tinkling tune comes out of it."

She smiled and opened her mouth to say something, but then she paused and drew back into herself.

"What is it?" he prompted, eager to know more about this fascinating woman.

She bit her lip and looked at him with unsure eyes for a moment, then she seemed to come to a decision and let out a self-deprecating, pretty little smile. "When I was a little girl, I saw someone with a music box like the ones you say you have built. She was sitting on the curb a bit of a ways away from me, but I could still hear the music when she opened it. It was very soft and very lovely. And I remember there was a dancer who popped up to stand when the lid was opened. It was beautiful."

Chuck was suffused with warmth, from his head to his toes. It was such a wonderfully candid moment, and he found himself cherishing it, and slotting it away in his brain to remember for as long as possible. "It sounds like quite the thing."

She giggled. "It certainly was." Then she leaned a little closer. "And I don't believe you are giving yourself enough credit. I think you would be able to make a contraption like the Opera—Orchestra—Whatever that unholy mess of a machine was called," Chuck laughed at that, "if you really gave it your all."

His ears burned a bit. "Well, thank you for your confidence in my abilities, and I don't mean any offense, of course, but you _have_ only seen me fix a watch, Miss Walker."

She drew back and made a face. "You built your android, did you not? The strange little man with the beard. And he seems much more complex than the toys I saw onstage a few moments ago."

Chuck's blush raged over every part of his body, he was sure, and she must have noticed because eyes softened and her smile widened. He nodded a bit, unable to think of anything to say to that, then dug into his pie with gusto, eating a bit more voraciously than was fitting with propriety.

It was just that it was such fantastic pork, the juices of the fat seeping into the sauce and moistening the crust. And it had been too long since he had the money or a reason to visit Mother Harriet's Pies.

"The truth is, Miss Walker, if you don't mind me expressing my opinion, that is…" He paused and she smiled a bit, almost as though she was laughing at him. He tried not to blush, but felt the burning of his ears anyways. Again. "Ahem. Right. I…Well, you see, I find the prospect of building a machine to play music a bit…" He huffed, trying to find the right words. "Well, to keep in theme with the fact that we are eating food…I find the idea of an orchestrion, or any kind of recorded music, really—Well, I find it unpalatable."

"Unpalatable? You don't like the idea of an instrument playing itself? Why is that?" She leaned her elbows on the table, not seeming to care about the impropriety of the action. Not that Chuck minded a lick.

"Watching a musician, someone who has studied and practiced his whole life to be able to pick up an instrument and create music…I suppose I find that to be a sacred thing. And incredibly beautiful. I believe people with that kind of talent are rare in today's world. Just as skilled artisans are becoming passé."

She tilted her head in curiosity, which he took to be a cue for him to continue.

"One hundred years ago, shops like mine were everywhere. Not just clocks and toys and that sort of thing, but blacksmiths and seamstresses…"

"Machines do all of that now, in factories, is what you're saying." She stirred her fork in some of the mushy apricot that had seeped out of the side of her pie slice. "And you think this is a bad thing."

"I build machines, myself, so I cannot say that without seeming hypocritical." She smiled at that. "But I think having machines do _everything_ for us will eventually make us lackadaisical. Lazy, even. And perhaps less intelligent. When you can get a machine to take care of every facet of your life, you don't have to use your brain anymore. You don't have to have any skills, any talent. And everyone on this dried up planet would turn into…" His eyes roved around the bar and settled on a swell in his mid-thirties, swaying drunkenly to no beat in particular, a half-empty mug of ale sloshing about in his unsteady hand. "…That fine fellow."

Sarah Walker followed his gaze, saw the man, and choked a little on her tea that she had just taken into her mouth. She patted her mouth with her napkin daintily and pursed her lips to keep a smile at bay. She was unsuccessful.

"Well, I never thought about it that way. Or maybe I never thought about it at all. What about the people like you who build and repair the machines that people use to do everything for them? You would still be using your skills, your God-given talent."

"There would only be a few of us. And everyone else would become, pardon me for saying it, but they would become brainless simpletons. I apologize for saying that."

She leaned closer and put her tea down, looking at him for a long while. He started feeling a bit uncomfortable under her piercing blue stare. "Mr. Bartowski, do you always apologize for the things you say?"

He was speechless, having been unprepared for such blunt candidness. She must have recognized it because she grinned and that bit of mischief was back in her shining face.

"Alright, you do not have to answer that, but only because you are being awfully nice in giving me a lovely tour of the city."

He chuckled. "Are you enjoying your—" Chuck's voice choked in his throat as he glanced down and saw that the giant slice of pie she had ordered was gone. When had that happened? Granted, she had only ordered a slice, as opposed to his small meat pie.

"It was delicious," she giggled with an adorable flush. "I'm sorry. I'm afraid I ate rather like an animal. I lunched a bit earlier than usual today."

Chuck took a chance and leaned forward with a small smirk. "Miss Walker, do you always apologize for having a hearty appetite?"

She laughed at that and leaned back against her chair, shaking her head. "Fine. I see what the rest of the night is going to be like."

"Oh, please. You have been teasing me a great deal more than the _singular_ time I teased you. If we were tallying points, you would be losing."

"Winning, you mean."

Chuck let out an amused huff and made a face at her, finishing his pie and gesturing for the waiter to return. When the moony-eyed young man returned, he had a hard time keeping his gaze from drifting to the pretty young woman sitting across from Chuck. It was difficult not to notice, and Chuck was chagrined to find that it irked him a little. To her credit, Miss Walker seemed amused more than anything.

"I'll have a slice of apple with a few fingers of cream, please. Also, a cup of Mama H's brew of the day. And for you, Miss Walker?"

"The same, please."

The waiter bowed and disappeared again, leaving the couple to rest back against their chairs comfortably and enjoy the atmosphere. A rowdy group of dock workers cheered loudly when their pies came, toasted Mother Harriet who most likely had flour up to her elbows as she rolled dough in the kitchen, and guzzled their mulled wine.

"You must be a frequenting customer here, then," she continued after the men simmered down. "Since the doorman, Goldy was it? Since he knew you so well."

"Not frequent enough," he said with a grin as their pie was set down in front of them again. He poured his cream over the pie generously and could not help but lick his lips as he saw the steam rising from the hot apple filling.

"Ah, so you are a brilliant mechanic and inventor, and even a man who saves little boys from being shot down in the street by corrupt patrolmen…but you're not much of a baker."

He grinned and ducked his head, shoveling a bit of pie into his mouth. "You have just told my entire life story, Miss Walker. I am definitely not a baker. I leave that to my sister, and then I siphon it through her kitchen window when she isn't looking." He winked, causing her to giggle into her coffee cup. "No, truthfully, were I a professional thief, I could not steal from that woman." He missed Sarah Walker's eye twitch as he looked down to skewer a slice of apple and smear it in the cream on his plate. "She has eyes in the back of her head. In fact, she is the one who tricks _me_."

"Oh?" She seemed awfully amused.

"Mm. 'Tis a sad tale," he said, affecting a British accent, before folding back into himself a bit bashfully, realizing he was forgetting himself a little in front of her. "The headmistresses at the orphanage Ellie and I lived in as children always saw much more potential in me than they did in her. They thought _I _was the smart one, and they pushed me to study and do well in my schooling. But the one with all the smarts is good ol' El." He beamed and rubbed the back of his head a little embarrassedly, not realizing that he was mussing his hair a little. "She bakes something delicious. Cocoa cake. Or biscuits. Nut tarts. Those sorts of things. And then she opens the vents so that the smell lures me into her kitchen. Just before I get my hands on a hot biscuit, she catches me and makes me repair something her husband broke."

Sarah gave off a tinkling laugh. "She didn't withhold the baked goods from you, though, did she?"

He shook his head and grinned. "No. She's never done that, thank goodness."

Chuck belatedly realized he had just subtly hinted at the fact that he lived in the same building as his sister, but if she noticed, she didn't say anything about it, or seem to be bothered by the prospect.

"You are close to your sister?"

"Very."

She smiled at that. "I hope you don't think me rude for asking, but your sister is a nurse, is she not?" He nodded. "I remember you told me after I found you bleeding in the alleyway the other day." She paused to gracefully eat a bit more of her pie. "What I meant to ask, really…I wasn't aware that you grew up in an orphanage."

"I did." He smiled in an attempt to reassure her that he was not put out by her topic of conversation, nor was he offended, or even upset in the slightest. He and Ellie had long ago come to terms with their upbringing by the severe mistresses at the orphanage. It was better than fighting to survive on the streets.

"How did your sister come to be a nurse? Usually the women who end up in those positions go through special schooling, do they not? And without parents, a woman has less of a chance to…make her way in the world on her own. That is not how it should be, but that's the way it is. It just seems…implausible? Oh, I am being rude."

Chuck shook his head vehemently and put his hand on the table, meaning to slide it over to lay on top of hers. But he stopped, realizing he might be overstepping, and instead wrapped his hand around his mug. "No, please. That isn't rude at all. My sister is a very special woman—_person—_and she has never been one to take no for an answer."

"Interesting."

"Interesting?"

"Yes. She must be incredible."

If at all possible, the beautiful, fascinating, witty woman sitting across the table from him rose even further in his estimation. "She is. But I _am_ starting to wonder if you aren't also incredible, Miss Walker."

Her fork scratched against the plate and she lifted her gaze from her food to his face, a small smile stretching her full lips. "Thank you for that."

"You're welcome."

"Speaking of incredible, there is a band setting up on the stage, and if I'm not mistaken, I do believe there is a bit of a dance floor in the middle of the room just there." She gestured to the center of the room, her eyes flashing in excitement.

Chuck turned and looked over his shoulder, absolute panic—no, _sheer terror_ rocketing through his system. He felt his blood run cold. "H-How does this relate to 'incredible' again? Because I'm afraid dancing is not my forte."

"There are many things that are not my forte, Mr. Bartowski, but I do them anyways because I must." She raised an eyebrow a bit like a schoolteacher, then put her napkin on the table. "Come. You're going to dance with me, Sir."

"I have absolutely no doubt whatsoever that I'm going to embarrass you something terrible, Miss Walker. Please, for your sake, don't make me dance."

"I wonder what dance they'll play. Oh, look. A few couples are already on the dance floor. Come, Mr. Bartowski, I'm not taking no for an answer." When she moved to stand up, Chuck's chivalrous nature overruled his self-consciousness and he leapt from his seat to move behind her chair and pull it out for her, taking her hand in his and helping her to her feet. "That's more like it," she chirped.

"Miss Walker, I beg of you. Do not make me dance."

"The polka!" Her grin widened and excitement practically buzzed in her startlingly mesmerizing face. Chuck had no bloody idea how she managed to deduce that the band was going to play a polka, but he had bigger fish to fry, as the saying went.

"I have no idea how to dance the polka."

"I'll teach you, then. Never fear."

How could he refuse her?

Even though Ellie had proclaimed him hopeless when it came to dancing, as she and Devon both had attempted to teach him to waltz, two step, polka—all to no avail. If he lost the interest of this marvelous woman because he fell on his rump during the polka, it would not be the worst failure of his life, he supposed. He had lost a woman to worse than a bad polka. Granted, he still was not entirely convinced he had Sarah Walker's interest _now_. As it were.

She guided him out to the dance floor and took his left hand with her right, holding their clasped hands beside them and looking up at him through her lashes. She was so attractive. And her hand was so warm in his.

She placed his right hand in the middle of her back between her shoulder blades and he swallowed thickly, giving her a weak, crooked smile that was certainly shaky at best. Then she stepped close so that there was maybe half a foot between them.

The trumpeter let out a few wailing blows, the tuba sweeping in to cover the bass. Just as he turned to listen to Sarah's instructions, a pain shot through his head and images of couples dressed in their finery, hopping to and fro, twirling in circles, bowing, flitted across his vision.

He clenched his eyes shut and shook his head.

"Mr. Bartowski? …Chuck?"

His eyes snapped open at the sound of her voice and he focused on the concerned look on her face. "Are you alright? Do you need to sit down?"

"No! No, I'm perfectly fine. I think perhaps today's blend of coffee was a little strong for me. Or the lighting again. No, I'm—"

"You lot gonna dance or just stand here?" a loud-mouthed patron asked as he swung his partner in a circle past them. The man seemed to be teasing more than anything, but it spurred Chuck into action.

His confidence built as he stepped close to her again and the bouncy rhythm of the banjo and piano working with the brass section seeped into his limbs. An unknown power made him hop twice to the right, then twice to the left. With the skill of someone who had been dancing for years, he turned Sarah in a circle and hopped again.

In no time at all, they were skipping along the dance floor, laughing joyously, stepping apart again to hop in place. Then they would step into each other's embrace again and strut past the other couples, waggling their heads at one another as they moved their feet in accordance to the beat.

Chuck raised their hands and let her duck under his arm, spinning her before he pulled her back into him. From there they hopped twice to the right, then twice to the left again.

At one point, Chuck grabbed the lapels of his own suit jacket took a couple skillful dance steps while Sarah stood back and watched, clapping to the beat and laughing uproariously.

When the band blasted the very last note of the song, the banjo player quickly strumming and grinning beneath his boater hat that was jauntily tilted forward over his brow, Chuck and Sarah slid their hands away from each other and stepped back. He bowed solemnly at the waist while she bowed her head and gently dipped into a graceful curtsy.

The applause was deafening as Sarah grabbed his sleeve and rushed them off of the dance floor. They ignored the hooting and hollering of the other patrons in the restaurant. As Sarah attempted to tug him past their dinner table, he held fast and fished into his pocket. He dropped the proper amount on the table, along with a tip that was not overly generous thanks to the waiter's inappropriate fixation on Chuck's female companion.

Chuck rushed past the pristinely outfitted youth at the door who was proffering his boater with a grin that was flattering in its awe. Chuck snagged his hat with a wink, ignoring the dizziness he felt now that the adrenaline was wearing.

He allowed her to lead him out of the restaurant and into the night air which wasn't entirely fresh, but at least it was cooler than inside. His equilibrium was slowly returning.

Sarah laughed and reached up to straighten her own hair (not that much of it was out of place because she was perfect), pulling her black gloves out from where they had been tucked inside of her jacket and slipping them back on. "You said you couldn't dance!"

He _couldn't_. Not until a few minutes earlier he couldn't.

As confused and uncomfortable as that made him, he shook it off because Sarah's eyes were bright with what looked suspiciously like admiration. "I-I suppose I can. I just…"

"You're shy, Chuck. It's alright. But you needn't be. I'm thoroughly impressed."

She said it so nonchalantly and easily, as though it wouldn't make him feel like floating up into the smoke layer and off into space forever. As though it wouldn't make him feel like dancing again.

But what had happened to him once the music started? It was like some unknown power had overtaken his body, stripped him of control, filled him with confidence, and given him the ability to dance.

Chuck shook his head and let out an amused huff at himself. Or perhaps Ellie and Devon's lessons had stuck after all.

As Sarah Walker beamed up at him and held onto his arm, walking at his side up the pier and back onto the docks, Chuck found he didn't much mind either way.

Just so long as she kept looking at him like this.

* * *

**A/N: **Oh, that was fun. If anyone is interested, the Orchestrioperatic Wonder came out of my head, but it is based on an actual mechanical music machine that was invented and reinvented through the 1800s, called an orchestrion. It's quite possibly the coolest thing ever. Google it on youtube.

Also, I made Chuck and Sarah do the polka to some brassy jazz, which might not have been a thing in our world, but in the SteamVerse just about anything is possible. And because Chuck flashing on the polka is something that needed to happen somewhere. So I made it happen.

Review! You know I love it when you do!

Until next year!

Hahahahahaha! Kidding.


	12. Some Hot Nutmeg and a Massive Biscuit

**A/N: **I'm glad a few of you seemed to enjoy the last chapter! This chapter went through the wringer before I was happy with it, so I can only hope you guys who've stuck with me are happy with it!

I'd like to take a moment to thank **dettiot** again for putting up with my whining and lack of confidence in my writing the last couple of days. She's a trooper. And always willing to let me test bits and pieces of my chapters with her. Thanks, writing buddy!

Thank you again to everyone reading, reviewing, sending me messages, tweets, et cetera. Gold stars, everyone. Or rather, brass stars. Since, you know, this is steampunk. And ALL THE THINGS are brass. So basically, you all get sooty, brass stars. Treasure them. But try to keep them away from white clothing. Lest they stain.

**Summary: **In 1776, George Washington declared himself King of the United States of America and began turning a new nation into the United States Empire: expanding to the west, amassing colonies and gaining power. Over one hundred years later, the government's secrets are at risk and a new way to keep them safe must be created. When those secrets are accidentally brought to inventor and toy maker Chuck Bartowski's doorstep, his future becomes uncertain as his life fills with adventures, hardships, and even a bit of romance.

**Disclaimer:** "Chuck" is not mine. Its characters are not mine. Though they might as well be, considering how often I think about them.

Now that all the blabber is over with, we're jumping from one jolly good date to the next. Oh, the joys of steampunk romance!

Enjoy!

* * *

"Ellie would have liked for me to become a doctor, but I am not suited for the profession like she is."

Sarah peered to her side at Chuck who was expertly steering the puttering vehicle along the bumpy road. He wore goggles over his eyes and a brown derby hat over his curly hair.

"Why not?" she yelled over the loud motor. She had opted for her tan trousers, a white blouse, and a black fitted duster that matched the short top hat she pinned protectively over her blonde hair for the almost violent ride in Chuck's odd two-person vehicle.

Because her experience with the steamnibus had not been enough, apparently. Or perhaps he thought that because she had not immediately lost her lunch when stepping off of the hellish bus, it automatically meant she had enjoyed the experience and would like to try it again, except this time in a more compact capacity.

This was not the case.

Although, the game they had played to pass the time during the bus ride was rather amusing. More amusing than she would ever admit to, even to herself. She had made him laugh so hard that his hat had nearly toppled off of his head. Strange, that. A man who was still capable of real laughter, the kind that stemmed from actual amusement and glee. He was either just as sheltered as Bryce had hinted at, or he was truly an anomaly. Both of those options left her feeling a bit lost, or filled with trepidation, or…something.

And then there were those pies. Or rather, the atmosphere in which they ate the pies. Mother Harriet's had seemed like something out of a dream. From the gold-toothed door man with the gold painted hat to the way the outside of the restaurant did not reflect in any way the wonder of the inside. It looked apt to fall directly into the sea at any moment, but when she stepped inside, her senses were assailed by the aroma of pipe smoke and baking sugar, the dim lighting filled with haze from the smoke produced by burning candles, the din of revelers and loud, boisterous music.

The thing that had made getting to sleep that night difficult wasn't the Orchestrioperatic Wonder. Or the two slices of pie sitting in her stomach. Or the thrill of dancing the polka with a partner who was better than proficient. (Although that last one was extremely odd. How a toy maker without an upbringing of fortune and wealth could know how to dance that well was beyond her understanding. Chuck had almost seemed confused by it as well, which was even more strange.)

The thing that had caused the Ice Queen to toss and turn in her bed, only to eventually walk to the small window of her hotel room, pull back the curtains and stare down at the street below for a few hours, was Chuck Bartowski himself.

She had ended up fumbling a great deal over dinner with the toy maker. Training and experience had covered said fumbles magnificently so that Chuck was none the wiser. But _she_ knew they were there, and it set her on edge.

His candor about his opinions on mechanical music and the passion with which he had spoken about the beauty of watching a live musician perform had lit a small flame in her. She was not equipped to delve into what that flame was, or why it was there. Not then, not even now. But it was there. That damnable flame had caused her to open her mouth to tell him about her music box.

Sarah had only just barely kept the real story inside, and instead told him an improvised rendition, replacing herself with some other little girl on the curb, leaving out the part where she threw a tantrum as her father ripped the music box out of her hands, or that her cheek had stung for a few hours afterwards.

Chuck had seemed pleased enough by her admission, and the warmth in his smile had made her look down at her pie.

She knew she was capable of looking any man, woman or child straight in the face without blinking an eye. She could witness just about any sight there was, grisly or not, and remain outwardly unmoved, keep up whatever act she was putting on.

But for some reason, she found herself turning away from Chuck Bartowski, diverting her eyes, losing control of whatever she was supposed to be doing, whoever she was supposed to be. It didn't happen often, but the fact that it happened at all was concerning.

Chuck turned and looked at her with a smile that squashed his cheeks against the goggles and made him look rather ridiculous, then he directed his attention back to the road as they ventured out of Los Angeles proper and veered along a dirt path that led towards the ocean. She wondered if he had _actually _thought driving in this contraption would be romantic. With the way it bounced around and puttered loudly, spewing steam everywhere…it was anything but.

"Well, you saw how well I take to seeing blood," he joked, a grin widening beneath his goggles, his nose wrinkling.

_What were we talking about again? Oh, that's right._

"You did fine. I was the one who almost lost my last meal." She wrapped her arms around her middle and leaned back against the uncomfortable, iron seat. Really? He couldn't even put cushions in? Or a proper leather cover?

She hoped Chuck didn't ride about in this very often, or he might permanently damage his backside. Or his…frontside.

She smirked.

"No, no," Chuck waved her off, seemingly oblivious of what the smirk on her face might signify. "You were—You were wonderful. You came through for me, distracted me from the fact that I'd been shot. I would have probably gone into shock or lost consciousness if you hadn't been there talking to me."

He finally pulled off the road and parked beneath a shady tree at the edge of a stereotypically scenic cliff. As his car bubbled and spewed steam, he hopped over the car door (instead of just opening it and stepping out, Sarah mused) and opened the rumble seat.

Reaching in, he pulled a small straw basket out and slammed it shut again as the car finally started cooling down.

Now Sarah could hear the waves of the ocean below them, a much pleasanter sound than this hellish contraption practically spitting out its insides.

Before she could climb out herself, Chuck was at her door, opening it for her. She accepted his hand with a smile and allowed him to help her out, trying hard not to laugh at the silly picture he made—his driving goggles and scarf had been unnecessary, as she had worn neither and survived the trip just fine.

As he closed the door, she walked to the edge of the cliff and looked out at the view, the late afternoon ocean breeze picking up her hair and whipping a few escaped tendrils about her face. She smiled to herself, realizing how often she forgot to treat herself to moments like this.

Moments where she could be alone in the silence with nothing but nature spread out before her.

"Well!" But she wasn't alone, she thought begrudgingly as his cheerful voice pierced the silence. "I'm great with machines, anyways. I built Morgan on my own before I was sixteen. Point me in the direction of a human being and I'm afraid I couldn't tell you the difference between a lung and a liver." He removed his hat, peeled off his goggles, and dropped them into the driver's seat, wiping his face down with his scarf and letting it hang loose about his shoulders before putting the hat back on his messy curls.

Sarah smiled over her shoulder at him. "I'm sure you could."

"Perhaps," he granted, spreading a wool blanket out over the grass behind her. "But the medical profession isn't for me. Being thrust into a situation where someone's life depends upon my actions? Not just once, but multiple times a day?" His eyes widened and he shook his head, suddenly looking a lot younger than she knew he was.

She walked back to help him spread the blanket evenly on the ground. "You just did the other day, when you saved that boy from the patrolman. Not once but twice."

He looked up at her with raised eyebrows, as though he had nearly forgotten about it. "No, that was different. It was more of a…gut reaction. I'm not even sure I was conscious of it while it was happening." The ease with which he waved off his own bravery was confusing, to say the least. There was nothing false in his modesty. She couldn't help but boggle at him. "But the stories I hear from my sister and her husband on a daily basis," he continued, "They make the smallest mistake and a life is lost. A child left without a mother, a wife without a husband. Those are consequences I'm not sure I could face. And anyhow, I haven't got the courage for it, and certainly not the passion."

"I understand," she assented with a nod.

"You do?" He blinked up at her, his hands stilling for a moment.

"Of course. Why slot yourself into a profession for the rest of your life if you don't love doing it?" She gracefully lowered herself onto her knees and watched him open the basket and produce two metal tankards and wrapped sandwiches.

"That's exactly it. So, uh…What do you do, Sarah Walker?" he asked.

_Anything short of prostitution. _

She inwardly shook her head at herself. Frankly, she was surprised that the question hadn't come up earlier, especially since they walked a good deal of the way back from Mother Harriet's Pies the other night and didn't stop talking the whole way. He had mostly described Los Angeles for her, advising her on the best parts of the city, as well as the areas to steer clear of at all costs.

"Well, Chuck Bartowski," she smirked teasingly. "I work at the Aviator's Timepiece."

"Oh? That's familiar. I think it must be—Oh, that's literally down the block from the Buy More! Not to mention, I was surprised at how close you live to my own lodgings. What are the odds? We work _and_ live within minutes of each other."

_Pretty good_, she inwardly giggled for his benefit, taking the proffered sandwich and unwrapping a corner of it. She took a bite, savoring the tender meat and sinfully tasty marinade of…was that almond oil and rosemary? "Mm, what is this?"

"Mr. Blandings sends his compliments." Chuck wiggled his eyebrows a bit.

"The pigeon sandwiches you talked about the other night?" she asked, opening her mouth in chagrin and narrowing her eyes good-naturedly. She had been adamant in refusing to ever try _pigeon_ of all things, the bastard winged pests.

"It really is delicious," she said warmly, taking another bite. And it really was. How such a filthy bird could become such a delicious sandwich, she chose not to dwell too much over. Maybe it was the rosemary.

"So…" he continued after a few minutes of contented munching. He set down his sandwich and unscrewed the tops of the tankards. They slid back away from the mouth and tucked into the side near the handle. He pushed one towards her with a smile. "What do you do at the Aviator's Timepiece?"

She raised an eyebrow. _What do you_ think _I do?_ she wanted to ask. But instead, she shrugged. "I serve drinks."

"Oh! Of course, of course." She watched his face and was rather surprised to find it didn't register scorn or some other judgmental response at her choice profession. It was not that she was incapable of working elsewhere—she was more than capable of procuring a job in any profession she chose—but the Aviator's Timepiece was a perfect distance away from the Buy More. She could stay close and was better able to keep an eye on Chuck, to protect him if the situation ever called for it. God, she hoped the situation never called for it, because there was a chance she couldn't handle it alone if it did.

"It's not the best job, but it is keeping a roof over my head. And I can handle some of the…less appealing parts of the job." Two men suffered broken fingers after crossing the line since she began working at the Timepiece a week before. The bar owner, Mr. O'Brien, was more than happy to allow her free reign as long as she didn't cause too much of a ruckus. And as long as he made his money at the end of the day.

"I'm sure you can." He smiled. "Perhaps, if you don't mind that is, I might drop by the Aviator's Timepiece one day. You can bring me a hot nutmeg. Mmm." He stopped, the dreamy smile on his face replaced by a mixture of surprise and sheepishness. She looked over the crust of her sandwich at him, beginning to smile. "O-Or something more manly. Like a whiskey. Two fingers. Straight."

He curled his lip menacingly, and laughter bubbled up from her chest, leaking through her lips. She looked away from his easy smile and the pleasure in his gaze, lowering her eyes back to her sandwich. Then she looked back up at him through her eyelashes.

"I like you, Chuck."

He looked almost stunned for a moment, then his features melted into a face-splitting grin. _Bullseye_, she thought to herself, as of yet unable to separate him from the other marks she had falsely romanced in the past, Bryce Larkin included. Apparently, the IEL puppet was _still _rather stuck on her. It made her smirk to think of it as she bit into her sandwich again.

"I was thinking, Miss Walker…"

"Sarah," she corrected automatically. "I think we're past Mister and Miss, don't you agree? Especially after that scandalous bout of polka at the restaurant the other night." She laughed when he blushed.

"Scandalous, indeed. There's something about that polka. Makes a fellow get fresh," he said, wincing a bit as if he realized how bad he was at flirting back. He was not as skilled in the ways of flirtation as his apparent boyhood friend Agent Larkin, but in many ways his difficulty was easier to stomach than Bryce's efficiency. Or perhaps the sincerity in Chuck Bartowski was just more potent than any silly flirtation could ever be.

She shook her head. _Potent?_

Sarah just laughed at him in an attempt to ease his embarrassment. It didn't help much as his ears turned rose-colored. "I'm not sure you are capable of being fresh, Chuck."

"I'd much rather gnaw on the sole of my shoe, frankly."

"Those are big words."

"Mm, none of them had more than seven letters." He winced again. "I'm terribly sorry. I don't know why I'm being this way."

"The sea air perhaps?" she teased. "You don't have to apologize. You have plenty of other redeeming qualities."

That got him to laugh.

They finished their meal in comfortable conversation as the sun went down. Sarah found herself enjoying the peaceful nature of the outing, if not the young mechanic's company. He had allowed for silence between them when words weren't necessary. It was a pleasant deviation from what she had expected of their date, especially with how verbal he had been when they first met. And he led most of the conversations during their date the other night, as well. He tended to babble when he was nervous, she also discovered.

A minor chill settled in the air as the sun began to dip closer to the horizon.

Chuck moved so that his legs were dangling over the cliff, his gray scarf fluttering in the breeze that was beginning to pick up as the air grew colder. Sarah moved to join him, plopping down beside him and wrapping her arms around her torso again. She was glad tonight was supposed to be a full moon, and as they were a bit of a ways away from the center of the city, the sky would be clear enough that it would provide more than enough light for them to stay even when the sun was fully set.

"Cold?"

"Oh, I'm alright," she said distractedly, her eyes focused on the horizon. But he removed his scarf anyways, holding it out to her. She was forced to look at him then waving him off. "I'm fine, really."

He ignored her and gently wrapped it around her neck anyways. "It doesn't matter what you're wearing. When your neck is exposed, you are going to be cold. Trust me. It has been proven."

"Has it?" she giggled, snuggling into the warmth of the scarf, smelling metal and smoke as it brushed against her nose. "By whom?"

"By me! Too many times I've forgotten my scarf and no matter how thick my coat is, it is positively frosty."

She grinned and leaned to the side, bumping his shoulder with hers. "Well, it's working so far."

He smiled back at her, then turned to watch the rest of the sun's descent in silence.

Finally, they piled the blanket and basket back into the steam-car and Chuck helped Sarah back into her uncomfortable seat. He fiddled with the engine and filled the tank with a water jug he'd shoved behind the driver's seat. Chuck strapped on his goggles, climbed into the car, and away they went again, down the winding road in the darkness, the covered lights mounted on either side of the vehicle not doing the best job at illuminating their way—but with the moonlight at their disposal, they made it to Sarah's hotel safely. She supposed that was more than she had expected when she had gotten into the suspicious vehicle. Although, to be fair, she survived the trip in the steamnibus just fine, though her backside had been a bit sore after that for a little while.

They paused to say goodnight in the lobby, Chuck holding his bowler in his hands, his goggles dangling askew around his neck. She handed him back his scarf with a genuine thank you, because the drive back had gotten a bit frigid and she saw him shivering, while she had felt warm enough to be comfortable. Thanks to his scarf.

"It's alright," he responded with a shy smile.

"You have been incredibly kind to me, Chuck Bartowski. And I cannot thank you enough."

He did not seem to have a response to that as his ears went red and he fiddled with the brim of his hat. Finally, he opened his mouth and gaped for a moment before speaking. "Well it hasn't exactly been a hardship spending time with you, Miss Sarah."

"I am very glad to hear it." She grinned. "Goodnight, Chuck."

"Goodnight. Shall—" He stepped closer, then maybe thought twice about it and took a half step back, fidgeting from one foot to the other. "Shall I call on you again some time?"

Sarah thought it might be fun to go in for the kill. Or at least she might get close to it anyways. She sent him a flirtatious smirk, looking up through her eyelashes at him as she backed towards the staircase. She turned and put her hand on the banister and glanced at him over her shoulder. "You know where to find me."

She didn't look back again as she moved up the stairs, but she heard the soft thump of what she knew was his hat hitting the floor at his feet.

Beaming mischievously to herself as she hurried up the stairs with a long bath as her prime objective, Sarah Walker, the Ice Queen, thought that perhaps she could make the best out of the situation. If nothing else, when she got past the fact that the man had a multitude of government secrets in his head and was therefore incredibly dangerous, Chuck Bartowski was an absolute joy to tease.

}o{

_You know where to find me._

Did she really mean that? What if he read too much into it? What if that wasn't actually an invitation to the Aviator's Timepiece?

He began to lose his nerve as he glanced up at the swinging sign above the entrance, the blocky letters that read "The Aviator's Timepiece" painted over a black zeppelin that protruded a bit as though it were flying right off the sign and up into the sky. Chuck stopped himself and shook his head.

"Man up," he breathed to himself. Not once during their so far short acquaintance had she given any indication that she was merely tolerating him. In fact, she seemed to enjoy herself during their outings, even though there had so far only been two.

It had been four days since he drove her to the shore and they ate a picnic as the sun set.

He regretted not visiting her sooner, but he had a backlog of orders that had needed to be completed and spent most of his time filling them. Casey had been a great help, making simple repairs to watches, clocks, toys, and other broken gadgets customers brought in off the streets.

But that did not mean Chuck had not thought about her in that time. He thought about her all too often. So often, in fact, that he wondered if taking a slight break from her might be a blessing in disguise. It couldn't be healthy to be this fascinated by someone he had just met barely a week earlier.

He lifted his watch from where it hung out of his vest. It was half past eight at night and he had yet to eat his supper, for which Ellie might berate him if she knew about it. But if he wasn't mistaken, Sarah Walker should be waiting tables at this hour. And if she was not working, he would perhaps try a mug of mulled wine and head back home to sup on whatever was left in his icebox.

Striding to the door with a bit more confidence than he had felt a moment ago, he hefted it open and stepped inside, his eyes roving around the place, immediately searching for the familiar and arresting visage of one Sarah Walker. Only when he saw her emerge from behind the bar with a silver tray full of drinks balanced on one palm, did Chuck stop breathing.

She expertly served the four men at the table their drinks and politely smiled in response to their less than savory looks of appreciation, and then she swept around in Chuck's direction.

Their eyes met across the room and she stalled in her determined gait, lowering the empty tray at her side. He just smiled, feeling slightly unsure—that was, until a beaming grin swept across her face.

Sarah maneuvered around the tables and stopped in front of him. "You're here."

Lord help him, but the way she was looking up at him, so pleased and a little breathless even (though he assumed that was from waiting tables), made him feel ridiculously giddy. "I am."

"Well come on, then. I'll give you the best table the Timepiece has to offer." She gestured for him to follow with a flick of her head over her shoulder and walked away. As he trailed after her, he took the opportunity to survey her uniform, trying not to swallow his tongue in the meantime.

She looked the part of femme aviator to a tee. She wore a matching corset top and flared skirt that ended at her knees, with an embossed metallic pattern of a tannish color. Over which she wore a dark brown aviator's coat that clung to her figure and ended just above the ruffled fringe of her skirt. The ends of the coat were pleated elegantly over the back of the skirt, and she even had a small half-cape that matched and ended halfway down her biceps. The coat's sleeves went to her wrists with a cog cufflink, and it was fully unbuttoned, caught at the waist with a black leather belt with a brass propellor-shaped buckle.

As she turned and gestured to the table with a graceful sweep of her arm, his eyes flicked back up to her face and he grinned. "If it isn't too rude of me to ask, what exactly makes this your best table? Not that it isn't lovely."

She cocked her hip and gently brushed at an errant hair that had fallen out of the elegant chignon her hair was pinned into by a large brown brooch. "It's the closest to me, of course."

"I'll take it," he shot back quickly, sweeping his hat off of his head and grinning.

He took his chair and sat down, letting Sarah take his hat and coat from him. She explained that they didn't have a coat check at the Aviator's Timepiece, so instead she would take them out of his way and return them when he left again.

Chuck wasn't entirely sure where that meant his hat and coat would be stored, but he accepted it anyways. He trusted her with his accessories.

She left then, her heeled black boots thumping on the wood floors as she passed the bar and pushed through a swinging door that billowed steam when she opened it. Chuck let out a long sigh and fixed his tan shirtsleeves, playing with the cuffs a little before straightening his vest.

Another woman who looked to be in her mid-forties, wearing exactly the same outfit as Sarah, except with an exorbitant amount of cleavage showing, walked out of the kitchen, plastered a smile on her face, and served some drinks to a table across the room. She accepted the pawing hands and laughed, knocking a couple of them behind the head when they got a little rough.

Chuck shook his head and looked back at the kitchen door as he heard it open.

Sarah was returning with a large mug of something that had steam rising up from it. She put it down in front of him and it smelled divine. Like…

"Hot nutmeg?"

She giggled. "Hot nutmeg. I thought you would appreciate that. If you want something else, I can bring it to you. I won't charge you for the nutmeg. I realize I didn't exactly ask you what you wanted to drink. Sorry." She bounced a shoulder but did not seem all that apologetic, that mischievous glint in her eyes again.

Chuck shook his head. "This is exactly what I wanted."

"Not whiskey? Two fingers? Straight?"

He laughed. "I would probably choke on it." He grabbed the handle of the mug and brought the liquid to his mouth, careful not to burn himself. It was delicious, even though he only got a small amount from the safe sip he took. "This is perfect. Delectable. Thank you."

"Want a biscuit? I won't make you fix anything to get it. Though…" She leaned her palm on the table and leaned over him, lowering her voice to an almost whisper. Lord help him but she was so close. "You _do_ have to pay for that."

"No friend discount?" he teased.

Sarah's smirk and raised eyebrows implied something he was afraid to dwell on, for fear his head might explode.

"I'll pay for the biscuit _and _the nutmeg, although I appreciate the gesture."

She shrugged. "Alright, then. I won't argue with you. I'll be right back with the biscuit."

Sarah was gone again, leaving Chuck grinning behind her. Without her in the room distracting him, he was able to take in the atmosphere of the Aviator's Timepiece. The place was nicely kempt and the patrons seemed less shoddy than those that frequented Mother Harriet's Pies and other joints he had been to for a drink and meal.

It was quite the incredible little public house, with a large airship model looming over the center of the room, made of painted wood and fixed with tin propellers. The light fixtures that dangled from the ceiling were rimmed in what Chuck assumed was fool's gold, which glinted in the lamplight just as well as real gold did, and at a fraction of the price.

There were mirrors mounted along the maroon painted walls, as well as rusted frame pictures that depicted different models of airships, zeppelins, dirigibles, weather balloons, and other flying contraptions—some that were more popularly used, and others that were still in trial phases.

And a massive clock—it must have once resided in a clock tower that had since been leveled to make way for a factory of some sort—was fixed above the bar smack dab in the center. They had designed a brass frame around it that made it look like a mystical giant's timepiece, the chain draped over the bottles of spirits lining the wall and connecting to a bob over the door Sarah had just disappeared through.

She came back a moment later with a biscuit that was about the size of his fist, a glaze brushed over the brown, crusty top. He smelled it before he saw it. And he had no problem footing a few coins for it. "This is amazing. This whole place is amazing."

"It's a job," Sarah replied quietly. "But that?" She flicked her thumb over at her coworker and fellow waitress having to twist a man's arm to keep his hand off her posterior. "I could do without that."

"Stick near my table and you won't have to deal with any of that, I promise." He gave her a reassuring smile.

She frowned, narrowing her eyes at him and gently nudging his shoulder with a fist. "I know that."

To his surprise, she pulled the chair out across from him and sat down. She must have seen said surprise on his face because she smirked, her eyes shining a little brighter than usual in their amusement. "I have a long break coming up and I'm just taking it a little earlier."

She crumbled a bit of the biscuit off with her fingers and popped it into her mouth, smiling in supreme satisfaction, her eyelids fluttering as she moaned. Chuck quickly brought the nutmeg to his lips and flooded his mouth with it, forgetting that it was still hot and choking a bit with a pained winced.

Sarah sat forward in concern. "Are you alright? Did you forget it was _hot_ nutmeg?"

"Yes, yes. I mean, no. That was…ow." He smacked his lips and shook his head. "I forgot just _how_ hot it was. I am also a fool, though. And it was a long day."

"I'm sorry. Would you like a glass of something cold? That looked painful." She was watching him closely, her features friendly and open and so inviting.

"No." In fact, he could have used something like iced water. Or maybe just ice by itself. More than that, though, he wanted her to stay right where she was. A part of him feared that if she got up, she would not sit back down again. "Thank you, but I am alright." His ears burned, both at his faux pas with the hot nutmeg, and at the direction his thoughts were taking.

He broke off a large piece of his biscuit and dipped it in the nutmeg, careful not to slop it all over his front as he quickly shoved it into his mouth. He heard Sarah giggle before she broke off another piece of the biscuit.

Chuck sent her a teasing scowl. "Say, if _I'm _paying for this biscuit, perhaps you should stop sneaking bites."

She pouted. "Who's sneaking?"

He laughed outright at that and pushed the plate into the middle of the table so that they might share it without her having to reach too far. That earned a beaming grin from her that made Chuck wonder if he wouldn't do just about anything to get her to smile at him like that again.

Sarah's eyes flicked down his torso and her brow furrowed in curiosity. "What is this, Mr. Bartowski?" she asked, leaning forward to poke at a bulge beneath his vest. "I was not aware you carried a piece," she said with wide eyes.

He knew she was teasing, but he was still quick to dispel her of any thought that he was a gun-toting gent. There were enough of those around. And while it was not illegal by any means for a man to carry a weapon, the implications of it were mostly, if not all, negative. Chuck reached into the inner lining of his vest and produced a beat up deck of cards.

It was the same deck he had been carrying around for years, since he was sixteen years old at least. They were a little smudged, certainly bent and chipped around the corners, but they still worked, and he had not lost a card yet.

Chuck fanned the cards out, gathered them back into his palm, did a few quick shuffles, and fanned them out again. "Would you like to see a favorite trick of mine?"

"Cards?" He glanced up at her, noticing the way she kept a tentative, blank look on her face. "Are you much of a gambler?"

There was something in how she was guarding her features, the way she was trying to make her voice nonchalant when she asked, that made him believe she was being cautious about the subject. Did she not approve of gambling? Was she afraid he was some sort of card shark?

"No, nothing of the sort." She raised her eyebrow dubiously. "No, truly. I don't gamble. I have a hard enough time keeping my business afloat without the addition of gambling debts, a'thank you." She giggled, her shoulders slumping as the tension left them. He wondered if there was some sort of story in her past. Was her father a gambler? Brother? Perhaps a past lover?

He silently berated himself for wandering down that path. It was none of his business either way until she brought it up herself. So instead, he fluttered the cards a little where he held them over the table, still fanned out. "Come now. Pick a card. You will like this, I know it."

Pursing her lips to keep from smiling (and failing miserably, he was happy to note), Sarah Walker picked a card and looked at it.

"Have you memorized it?"

"Of course I have," she smirked.

"Right. Of course you have. Place it back in the deck, Miss Walker."

She did so, watching him as he slid the cards back together, straightened them in his palms, and started shuffling quickly. "Isn't that asking for trouble?"

"What?"

"Keeping a deck of cards like this. You could be reported for gambling."

"I'm not gambling," he replied easily.

"Well, _I_ know that. But randomly pulling a deck of cards out in public doesn't seem…well, prudent."

Chuck just smiled at her, breaking the deck into six stacks, re-stacking them, and separating them again, his hands moving quickly. He saw that she was rather entranced by his movements and it lit a flame in his chest. "Oh, there's nothing random about it, Sarah. I always have my deck with me wherever I go. You never know when you might need one of these." He lifted the deck beside his ear and wiggled it back and forth, knowing that the bottom-most card, the one flashing at her right then, was the very same card she had drawn.

He saw her eyes widen a bit before she schooled her features quickly, and he inwardly congratulated himself before shuffling the deck some more and losing her card somewhere in the middle.

"I've heard the laws about gambling are slipshod in Los Angeles, but I know the patrol would jump at the chance to nab someone for it." She leaned a little closer. "And besides, whatever would you need cards for if not to gamble? Do you just ask random people on the street to pick a card, any card?"

Chuckling, he split the deck into two stacks and folded his arms on the table, leaning close as well. He thought maybe he was being a bit forward when she twitched back a little, but then she smiled and settled back into her position comfortably. "No. But ever since I was a boy, I always needed something to do with my hands. I got into a lot of trouble at the orphanage because they would find scraps of torn up parchment around my desk, or bits of wood that I'd picked off the chair, strings that I'd pulled out of cushions, et cetera." She giggled softly. "I can't help it, I suppose. Always building things, constructing, fiddling. So I keep a deck of cards. I usually end up shuffling them in my lap during bus rides if I am not sketching in my notebook."

"I feel as though it would be impossible to sketch anything in one of those insane contraptions," she replied with a dubious tilt of her head.

He laughed. "Precisely why I need these. My notebook ends up having nothing but messy scribbles and the floor of the steamnibus ends up covered in points of lead snapped off of my pencils."

She shook her head and let out a soft one syllable giggle. "Still. I think it is rather dangerous for you to keep cards in your vest. All a patrolman needs is to see those for him to feel perfectly justified when he arrests you for gambling."

Chuck could not help but smile fondly at her. "You sound like Ellie." She frowned. "Oh, it isn't a bad thing. I love my sister." Panic rocketed through his system as he realized how many implications went with what he just said. The first being that Sarah might think he was hinting at being in love with her. The second, that he took whatever this was between them as more of a platonic relationship than romantic. Neither of those things were the case.

Well, not the second, at least, and the first…

He shook his head at himself. He could not afford to think that way. He would lose all semblance of the tenuous amount of control he had been applying to their acquaintance so far. She was just so tremendously marvelous and wonderful and perfect, he was having trouble not telling her every moment he was in her formidable presence.

Forcing himself down from the clouds, Chuck continued on quickly, careful not to look at how she had taken that last comment.

"Ellie always berates me about these cards. She's still so protective. I believe it carried over from when we were kids, when I needed her to be both a sister and a mother. I'm twenty-six years old now, and…well, when she sees these," he held the bottom of the deck up for her to see having skillfully slotted her card there again, "she immediately does her headmistress voice. _Charles Irving, you better throw those out before I do. The patrol sees them and they're not just going to confiscate the cards, they're going to confiscate _you _too._"

A slow smile had since grown on Sarah's face and he knew she had noticed that he was holding up her card again and knew that he was doing it on purpose. Then she giggled a bit, glancing over her shoulder at the rest of the public house. "She _is _right, you know. The patrol will take any chance they have got to toss someone in the clink. For goodness sakes, they almost shot a starving little boy for taking bread."

Chuck snorted. "I'm not even sure the patrolman knew what had happened. He saw the poor little fellow running away and used him as target practice."

"That is the likelier story. And even more reason for you to be careful."

When she put a hand on his arm and squeezed, warmth spread from where her fingers grasped him, seeping over every last part of his body and into his heart. He affected not to notice and licked his lips a little, using his other hand to bring his mug to his mouth and take swig of his warm nutmeg.

"I know." He shrugged, and met her gaze, feeling a little depressed when her hand slipped back across the table and into her lap. "Way I see it, though, it doesn't make sense to constantly be living in the shadows, afraid of every little thing that _might_ happen if something else happens. 'Mights' and 'what ifs' never made any sense to me. If the patrol wants to, they could march in here right now, tell me I have broken some law at some point, and there would be nothing I could do about it." She just looked at him, her features soft and just as beautiful as ever, her face framed by tendrils of luminous blond hair, her eyes so blue he felt a little breathless looking into them. "I don't like the idea of going out of my way to avoid upsetting men whose opinions I couldn't care a lick about. Putting my life on hold. Not doing what makes me happy. It infuriates me, some days. Makes me want to try and rebel a little." He knocked the deck on the table top twice out of habit. "And then other days, I become a sheep like the rest of the population, usually because I am feeling particular tired that day."

She pursed her lips and looked down at the cards with a minute nod. "You're right. Still, you should be careful."

Chuck split the deck into four stacks one more time, shuffled, and pulled the card on the top, flashing it at her. "Is this your card?"

Sarah grinned, on the brink of laughter, then nodded.

"I know I should," he continued with his own proud smile. "And I am. Which is why I'm playing in the back of the Aviator's Timepiece instead of out on the sidewalk or in some back alley somewhere. Never conduct business in an alley way, Sarah Walker. That's another lesson of life in the city."

"I already knew that one. It seems a bit like common knowledge."

"Mm. You have got a point there."

She grinned a harder and broke a large piece off of his biscuit, making Chuck wonder idly if he had even gotten to eat any of it himself. As she took a large bite out of the fluffy morsel, she began to climb to her feet.

Chuck stood up from his seat quickly, leaving his deck in the middle of the table.

She looked very amused as she chewed on the biscuit. "My break is over, I'm afraid."

"Ah. Of course. I should finish my nutmeg and begin my journey back home." She nodded with a tinge of what he thought and certainly hoped was disappointment.

Suddenly his hand that had been holding the two of hearts was empty. He blinked, then looked up at Sarah who was now holding it next to her face, wiggling it in the same way he had a few minutes earlier. "How did you—?" he breathed.

"I'm going to keep this with me, just so you know."

"What? Why?" Chuck breathed, feeling overly warm as he took in the pure mischief in her face. _Lord save me. This woman will be the death of me. _

Not to mention, he was still a bit off-balance from how quickly she had managed to grab his card.

"Put it back, Miss Walker. Else I'll have an incomplete deck of cards. How will I practice when I'm missing the two of hearts?"

She just smiled and sighed with a small roll of her eyes. "Alright."

Seemingly relenting, the pretty waitress put the two of hearts back on top of his deck, but when she pulled her hand back up, she had the entire deck pressed to her palm. He just gaped, his brow furrowed as though she had committed the ultimate betrayal. She laughed at him as she tucked the deck in her apron.

"You're stealing my cards?"

"I am showing solidarity with your sister. You're safer walking around without these in your pocket. Also, I am going to make an effort to figure out how you did that trick. You can part with them for awhile, can't you?"

"What will I do when I'm bored?" he asked, the look of confusion and betrayal still on his face, even though he was inwardly brimming at the exchange. Was it just his imagination or was this a gesture of concern for his well being? He would gladly dance another one hundred polkas in public if it meant that was true.

"Why don't you look out the window every once in awhile?" she chirped, raising an eyebrow. "You might see Los Angeles in a whole new light."

"Now you are teasing me," Chuck smirked.

She bit her lip with a smile. "No, really. I am keeping the cards. Your sister would thank me."

"She might just." And hopefully sometime soon, Chuck thought to himself. Because he had a feeling Ellie would love Sarah. And he wondered how soon was too soon when it came to introducing a woman to one's family.

"Alright, keep the cards," he chuckled, leaning down to snag his biscuit and tuck the rest in his pocket, before lifting the mug of nutmeg and the plate. Sarah swept close and grabbed both from him quickly, flashing him a disgruntled look. "I was just…"

"It's my job, Mr. Bartowski. And I'm putting all of this on your tab."

"I can pay now."

"You are coming back at some point, aren't you? Or was the nutmeg not to your taste?"

Chuck found he was incapable of anything else, so he just laughed and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "The most delicious nutmeg of my life, Miss Walker. Now where's my hat and coat?"

She raised both eyebrows and pressed her lips together as though she was on the brink of laughter. "Yes sir. Right away."

When she swept away in a flurry of skirts, he caught a whiff of her scent. It was as though she had spent the afternoon and evening in the kitchen, the smell of baking bread and cinnamon clinging to her hair and clothes. It made him feel a bit dizzy and when she returned with his hat and coat, he was rather speechless.

"Be safe, Chuck," she said with a little smirk.

He shrugged his coat on, buttoned it, and set his hat on his head, unable to keep from grinning. "I have nothing to worry about now you've stolen my cards."

Chuck tipped his hat and left her standing next to his table, feeling the urge to dance out of the Aviator's Timepiece instead of strolling purposefully. He withheld the urge, and was so focused on controlling his utter elation that he didn't see Sarah's smile die a bit, before she turned and rushed through the kitchen doors.

He also missed the cloaked young woman following him down the street a few moments later. She was smiling in amusement to herself as she saw him happily skip over a puddle before continuing along with a telling bounce in his step.

* * *

**A/N: **Glad we got that out of the way. Ugh. Charah. Am I right? (nudge)

We'll be seeing more of other peoples/androids in the next chapters, so I hope everyone sticks around and keeps reading. And of course, I really would love a review. Even if you really need those extra ten seconds of your life. I'm a stinker.

Now everyone go out and enjoy yourselves.  
(tosses a worthless coin in your general direction)  
On me. Hehe.

SC, out.


	13. Is That a Rag in Your Bowie Knife? Ahem

**A/N: **Sorry for the long wait, adventurers! Things happen. A conglomeration of things, to be precise. That wasn't even precise. Haha! Thank you to all of you fine gentlemen and women who sent me reviews, PMs, notes, tweets, et cetera et cetera et cetera. It means the clockwork world to me. You're all the feather in my cap! It's true!

I'd like to take a moment to especially thank The Cassettes for their adventuresome music. It helped me get in the mood. As it were.

**Summary: **In 1776, George Washington declared himself King of the United States of America and began turning a new nation into the United States Empire: expanding to the west, amassing colonies and gaining power. Over one hundred years later, the government's secrets are at risk and a new way to keep them safe must be created. When those secrets are accidentally brought to inventor and toy maker Chuck Bartowski's doorstep, his future becomes uncertain as his life fills with adventures, hardships, and even a bit of romance.

**Disclaimer:** "Chuck" is not mine. Its characters are not mine. Though they might as well be, considering how often I think about them.

Onward, plot! Off you go!

* * *

Chuck had just finished assembling a wind-up horse and was readying to test it when John Casey walked in the door that led to the alley on the side of the building.

"Good morning, John!" Chuck quite nearly chirped, causing the older man's head to snap up, his lips twisted in grumpy confusion. And then his gargoyle-like features morphed into what could only be described as suspicion, his eyes narrowed and his shoulders tense.

The young toy maker had since begun getting used to the contrary mood of his assistant. It was so easy to get a rise out of him and Chuck thought that in a lot of ways Morgan had perfected the undertaking, without even meaning to. Their conversations—they were rather more like one-sided arguments with Casey losing his calm while Morgan remained unemotional and logical—tended to be incredibly amusing. Chuck had even witnessed Casey stuffing a dirty rag into Morgan's mouth, only to be chagrined when the android's voice continued without pause. Almost as though he had forgotten for a moment that Morgan was, indeed, a machine—and that its mouth was decorative more than anything.

Chuck understood the mistake. Morgan was more human than plenty of actual human beings he had come across in his life. A certain faction of "law-keepers" who preyed on the citizens rather than protecting them came to mind.

But Chuck Bartowski was not going to let Casey's less than chipper reception divert him from his glorious mood. Because Sarah Walker existed. Not only that, but she acknowledged _his_ existence, and now had his deck of cards in her possession, as well as something much more important that belonged to him. Though he would not risk even thinking about that something, for fear of jinxing everything.

She seemed receptive to spending time with him, though, and for now, that was more than he thought he deserved, because she was perhaps the most perfect woman he had ever met. Chuck wouldn't go so far as to say she was interested in the same way he was, perhaps. But it had only been three weeks since they met in the alley way after the patrolman incident. There was all the time in the world, and he would be glad to have her in his life in any propensity at this point. He felt like the luckiest fellow in the empire, no the _world_.

"What makes you so perky this morning, Bartowski?"

His giant grin must have put Casey in a bad mood, Chuck mused to himself. "You were just outside, weren't you? The weather is beautiful!" he lied.

His assistant took his overcoat off and hung it on the rungs beside the door, making a face over his shoulder. "It's the same as it always is. Pollution and heat. Then there is a breeze. And that goes away. And back comes the pollution and heat."

He lifted his newsboy from his head and hung it next to his overcoat, then walked over to his workstation, his boots thumping heavily on the wooden floorboards as he moved.

"Would you rather live on an ice cap, Casey? You could befriend a penguin. Do you know about penguins? There was a picture in one of Ellie's veterinary books. They have markings that make them look like they're wearing tuxedos." He chuckled over his shoulder at Casey who was ignoring him completely.

With a shrug, he went back to the toy horse and squinted in concentration. Picking up the small key between his fingers, he inserted it into the hole on the horse's tin side and twisted it clockwise, winding it until he heard the gears inside start clicking and clacking.

He set it on the work table and cleared the blueprints out of the way, watching it teeter up and down as the base Chuck fitted with wheels rolled along the flat surface.

"Ha! Look at him go, Casey! Think this will sell?" He stepped away and flung an arm out to present it to his assistant who did not seem to think it as exciting as he did. Not that Chuck was surprised in the slightest by this.

Casey eyed the horse severely, then went back to preparing his work space for the day. "It's lovely," he grumbled.

Chuck snorted and shook his head, picking up the small toy horse and setting it on his side to keep it from wandering off the edge of his table.

Morgan stepped into the workshop from the store and stopped. "Chuck, the store has been opened because it is eight thirty and that is when you usually like to open to your customers. Also, I counted the keys in the display case. There are exactly twenty seven. And lastly, a letter came for you in the post yesterday. I did not give it to you then. So I am now."

His metal hand lifted with the letter clutched between his fingers.

"Why didn't you give it to me yesterday, Morgan?" Chuck stepped up to snag it and pulled a letter opener out of his vest pocket, popping the seal and slipping what ended up being an order request from the envelope.

"You left with your woman before I could give it to you."

In his peripheral, Chuck saw Casey's head pop up from where he was concentrating on his workspace. His ears felt like they were on fire and he was sure they were redder than red. "Morgan, don't call her _my woman_. That's disrespectful. That being said, we are just spending time together."

"You're seein' a girl?" Casey asked, his eyebrows nearly disappearing into his hairline. It was only slightly offensive.

Chuck turned to face his assistant. "Oh, John Casey. She is much _much_ more than just 'a girl'. She is a woman," he said adamantly.

The gears in Morgan's head churned behind him. "You said not to call her a woman."

Chuck spun to face him. "I told you not to call her _my_ woman. But she is—She's a woman. Of the female—You know what? It doesn't matter."

"Interesting," Casey muttered with an amused grunt, before going back to arranging his tools.

"I know there's an insult in there somewhere and I can't believe I am still asking this, but…How, Casey? How is it interesting?"

Casey shrugged, pursing his lips. "I'm tryin' to picture _you_ with a woman, and there just seems to be a mental blockage there, that's all."

"That sounds like it's _your_ problem," Chuck shot back while quirking an eyebrow.

"Have you seen a doctor, John Casey?" Morgan asked.

Casey grunted and ignored Morgan's concern. "You're between hay and grass, Bartowski."

"That sounds like something you should see a doctor about, Chuck. Perhaps Ellie can assist."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Chuck asked defensively, also ignoring Morgan.

"Neither boy nor man."

"Now that's just offensive. I'm almost thirty years old! Well, I'm twenty-six, which is closer to thirty than twenty…I'll have you know. Which I think means I am fully in the grass, thank you. Or I am eating the grass. Whichever goes with your rude euphemism." He crossed his arms in a huff.

"Well, what's she like?"

Both Chuck and Morgan turned to look at Casey as though he'd sprouted horns on his forehead.

"What?" Casey asked, glancing between them with a shrug.

Chuck laughed. "Casey, I'm sorry. It's just that Morgan displays more interest in…well, _everything_ than you and he's an android."

"That is true, Casey," Morgan said. "I am an android." He knocked on his metal chest for proof, in the event that Casey needed reminding.

"I have interests," the older man grunted defensively.

"I'm sure that's the case, John. It's just that you don't…" Chuck moved his hands around in front of him, searching for what to say that wouldn't sound demeaning.

"Because I do my job? Well, I'm interested. So…what's she like? Since apparently you didn't hear me ask the first time." The muscular man shrugged his suit jacket off, draped it over his chair back, and began to roll up his sleeves.

"Imagine the perfect woman—"

"My ma."

Chuck blinked at the admiration in Casey's face. "Erm. Yes. Right. Well, Sarah is better."

The disbelief and anger in the muscled man's mien almost made Chuck bolt out of the room. "You take that back! My ma's the greatest woman to ever live!" he growled between his teeth.

"Maybe-Maybe I was mistaken?" Chuck tried, attempting to keep his voice from squeaking.

Casey calmed down and lowered the screwdriver he had brandished with a satisfied grunt.

"Uh, but Sarah's—She is strong. And intelligent. And she has a nice voice. And a good sense of humor."

"Does she laugh at your jests and witticisms, Chuck? Because if she does, perhaps that means she has a bad sense of humor." Morgan's mouth opened as though he were waiting for a response. "That was my own jest. It seems it was not well-received. I shall make a note of this."

Chuck shook his head, then turned back to Casey. "She wears lovely clothes. Not just dresses, either, but trousers and such. Which is so unique and wonderful." He stopped himself, afraid he would end up a puddle on the floor if he kept listing Sarah Walker's attributes, all of which were so far incredibly positive.

"Come now, Bartowski. I know you wanna open the floodgates—"

"Why would he want to do that?"

"It's a phrase, Morgan."

"I shall store that one."

"Good."

"Let the details spill forth, Bartowski," Casey continued as though Morgan had never spoken. Chuck was confused to say the least. This was the most Casey had spoken to him at one time, but on top of that, the look on the man's face belied the interest he was conveying with his words.

"Her name is Sarah."

"You told me her name."

"I did? Oh. Well, she's…she's very pretty."

"Chuck, you told me that she is the most beautiful thing you have ever laid eyes on," Morgan informed him, accompanied by a winding sound behind his eyes. "You told me in those very words the other night. Two nights ago, in fact. At six o'clock. After closing. I quote verbatim: Sarah is the most—"

"I didn't—it was—"

"—Beautiful thing I've—which is a contraction for _I have_—ever laid eyes on."

Chuck let his eyes slip shut as he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, now well aware of the stupidity of using an android with information storing capabilities as a confidant.

"She is…incredibly beautiful. It is unreal how beautiful she is," he finally said, resigned.

"Beautiful by your standards? Or beautiful by general standards?" Casey asked.

A gear in Morgan's chest made a short whirring noise that seemed to be a laugh, or some other sound that conveyed amusement. Chuck glared at him, then at Casey.

"And what is that supposed to mean, _my standards_?"

"If I could answer, John Casey," Morgan said, stepping forward. Chuck looked at him, his face contorted in offended disbelief. He felt ridiculous, but _traitor_ was the first thing to pop into his head. "You see, Chuck, you are abnormally tall by average height standards in this particular society—rather, in _any_ society—and you are probably aware of this which causes some small degree of self-consciousness. This is why you tend to slouch. The size of your head does not perfectly correlate to the size of your body. Your arms are thin. As are your legs. You have large feet."

"Thank you, Morgan," Chuck monotoned with a displeased, grimacing smile.

"Aside from your physical appearance, you own a business which does not produce as much profit as you had first hoped when it opened. These factors add up, and you are probably lower on the desirability spectrum than your average Los Angeles male. Thus, your standard of beauty is lower than the general standard of beauty." Morgan folded his hands together behind his back. "Shall I continue, or do you understand?"

"I would prefer you didn't."

"I could stand to hear a little more," Casey snarked, earning a direct glare from his employer. He slumped a little. "Although I'd like to keep my job. So I think you covered it."

"Very good," Morgan chirped. "I will keep an eye on the store." He turned on his metal heel and walked back through the door.

Before Chuck could even send his assistant an unamused stare, Morgan stepped back into the workshop. "Chuck. _The _woman, who also goes by the name Sarah, is here."

A wave of euphoria, then nerves, and finally a mixture of the two, overcame him and he was speechless for a good fifteen seconds. "She's here _now_?"

"She was not here five minutes ago. If that is what you are asking." If Morgan was not a machine, Chuck would have sworn that was sarcasm. He was almost certain, in fact, that Morgan was not all that clear on what was sarcasm and what was not.

"Tell her—Tell her I will be out in a moment, will you?"

Morgan bobbed his head and went back into the store, leaving Chuck to spin around and rush to Casey's workspace. "Do I have grease anywhere? My face?"

"No," Casey grunted."

"You didn't even look. Come, Casey. This woman is marvelous. I can_not_ just waltz out there with oil smudged on my face."

"You could try the Mazurka." The man sniggered to himself at his joke.

"Be serious for a moment—I can't believe I just had to tell _you_ to be serious. Of all things." Chuck slammed his hands on the workspace and leaned close. "You heard Morgan, Casey! I'm low enough on the desirability spectrum as it is!"

Casey huffed in annoyance and looked up. "There's nothin' on your face but that stupid gob."

"Great! Then…" Chuck stopped when he realized what the man said, and gave him a supremely unamused look. "Never mind, you goat."

Chuck figured he could always fire him. But he was a good worker. And a part of the young inventor liked…elements…of John Casey's person. Sometimes. He made for a good guard dog, at the very least. The inventor pulled his apron off and folded it over his stool, then set down his goggles and straightened his shirt, suspenders and trousers. He shrugged on the brown jacket that matched his pants, buttoned it a bit and smoothed the front. Running a hand through his unruly hair, he stepped out into the store and scanned the room for Sarah.

"I can tell you verbatim, Miss Sarah! He said that you are the most beautiful thing that he—"

"Miss Walker!" She stood across the counter from Morgan, looking like she was trying very hard to keep from laughing, her teeth clamped down on her lower lip. "Morgan, that's quite enough for today…I think! What do you think?!" Chuck cleared his throat and folded his hands together in front of him.

Morgan bowed a politely at Sarah and backed away, walking around the counter and pacing around the main floor.

"Good morning, Chuck." Sarah smiled at him brightly. He looked down and saw that she was wearing her waitressing uniform from the Aviator's Timepiece. She followed his gaze and shrugged a bit. "I just ended my night shift at the Timepiece and since I was in the area, I thought maybe I would check on my favorite toy shop."

_And your favorite toy maker? _Chuck shook his head at himself. He was definitely jumping the gun on that one. And besides, how many toy shops could Sarah have come across in her short time in Los Angeles? Not many. He felt like an idiot all of a sudden, but looked at her smile and felt leaps and bounds better.

"You just finished your shift now? You mean, you worked all night?"

"I'm the new waitress, Chuck. That means I get slotted where the other girls don't want to be." Her shoulders bobbed. "I don't mind it at all. It gets quiet after one, then I close up at two and clean until I leave at eight."

"I see. That sounds rough."

"It isn't terrible. And it's only three times a week." She smiled again and he returned it, distractedly fiddling with the rolled up cuff of his jacket. "I'm sorry it's so early," she said a little unsurely when he didn't say anything for awhile. "I wasn't thinking." She picked at the drawstring of her purse at her wrist, looking away.

"No, no. Please. You're welcome here any time of the day or night! Although, er—If you come at night, the only person here is Morgan and he'll be charging and unresponsive because he isn't…" He leaned closer and caught a whiff of citrus and cinnamon, and God help him but he had to brace himself against the display case to keep from collapsing. "Uh, he isn't human. But I can't say that too loudly because I'm afraid I might hurt his feelings. You know how it is."

She wrinkled her nose and leaned close. "Oh, yes. Yes, of course. I'll remember not to visit the Buy More in the evening hours."

"Good." He pushed himself back again and felt himself begin to breathe regularly once more. It was touch and go for a bit there. With her so close. And so warm.

"And you know, there's a side entrance," he added. "From the alley." He threw his thumb over his shoulder towards the workshop. "It's the door employees use. And special customers."

She smiled and folded her hands together behind her back. "I'm a special customer now?"

"You are."

"But the only thing I've brought in so far was that watch three weeks ago. Since then I haven't even set foot in the Buy More. Yet, I'm a special customer?"

"You are."

"How's that?"

"On account of the friends discount at the Aviator's Timepiece that you've given me both times I visited you there. And because I like to think you are—that we are—" He stopped and rubbed his hands down his front, trying not to notice the way she twisted her mouth to the side. Was she laughing at him or was that—Was she blushing?

"Well, we're friends, Sarah."

"We are," she agreed with a smile, fingering her purse again. She opened her mouth to say something else when the door to the workshop opened behind him.

"Chuck, have you been avoidi—" The toy maker spun when he heard Ellie swallow the rest of her sentence with a sharp gasp. She stood stricken in the doorway, her hand on the doorknob, her gaze locked on Sarah on the other side of the display case. "I'm so embarrassed. Morgan didn't tell me you were consulting with a customer." She unfroze and smiled politely at Sarah, then fixed her brother with a meaningful stare…although what she meant was lost on her brother.

"No, Ellie. That's alright." He waved her closer and she timidly walked up to stand beside him. He wrapped an arm around the shoulders of her plain, gray nursing uniform as she self-consciously rubbed her hands down the front of it to straighten her apron a bit. "This is just Sarah."

His eyes popped. "I-I mean. She isn't _just_ Sarah. She's Sarah Walker. I mean, Ellie this is Miss Walker. She's a special customer. My special customer."

"Chuck, stop while you're behind," Ellie murmured out of the side of her mouth and he winced as she patted him on the chest with the back of her hand.

"Hello, Miss Walker." She stepped forward and offered her hand to Sarah, who seemed to take it eagerly enough.

"Sarah. It's wonderful to finally meet you. You must be Chuck's sister?"

"Eleanor Woodcomb. Just plain Ellie's alright." He watched as his sister froze, and then her eyes swept up to meet his. He wasn't sure if she was going to yell at him later on at home…or shake him…or make him cut his hair or something. If he was lucky, she would let it all out on his brother-in-law before Chuck even got home. That would be lovely. "Finally?" Ellie asked, fixing him with a wide-eyed stare, before turning back to Sarah.

When both women ended up looking at him, Chuck folded into himself a bit. This was not supposed to be as awkward as it was becoming, and he knew it was all his doing. "Miss Walker helped me three weeks ago. Remember when I came to the clinic and—"

"You mean when you were shot by a patrolman?" Ellie's gaze darkened and her lips shrunk into a thin, hard line. He had gotten scolded in a way only an older sister was capable of, but in the end, she had seemed proud of him for saving the boy. He had not mentioned Sarah at the time because part of him had wondered if she had just been a figment of his imagination after all.

"Yes." He glanced at Sarah and saw that she seemed a little embarrassed by the situation. Struggling to find a way to ease her suffering, he cleared his throat. "She found me in the alleyway and bandaged my arm until I could get to you."

Ellie turned to Sarah and smiled. "So you were the one who wrapped the wound. I was confused because it was very well done, almost as though a nurse had done it, and Chuck could not have wrapped it himself. He goes white as a sheet at the sight of blood." She giggled with a little snort as Chuck turned red as a radish. To Ellie's credit, she winced a little and looked apologetic, as though she hadn't meant to say that in front of a woman who was potentially—_Oh and there it is._

He watched as Eleanor Woodcomb put the pieces together. Nearly three weeks after the incident and Sarah Walker was here in the Buy More, having mentioned how wonderful it was to _finally_ meet his sister. Sarah's face remained blank, although somewhat amused, meaning she luckily had no idea what was going through his sister's mind.

Chuck did.

He knew exactly what was going through Ellie's mind.

Marriage.

He had to nip that in the bud, as it were. But before he could even open his mouth, Ellie spun back to Sarah. "Have you seen battle, Miss W—I'm sorry—_Sarah._"

The younger woman seemed taken aback at that, her resulting smile polite but tentative. "No, I-I'm afraid I haven't."

"I just assumed. The way you tied it was a quick and efficient way to stop blood loss. We were taught the method in nursing school, in case we are ever needed in a war. When there are so many wounded, you need to be quick about it." She must have seen the look on Chuck's face because she pinked a bit and folded her hands in front of her. "I should commend you for the job you did on Charles' arm. He was well taken care of. Thank you." She extended her hand and Sarah took it rather sweetly. It made Chuck's heart skip a beat.

"It was nothing. And quite honestly, it was the least I could do after he risked his life for that poor boy," she replied and Chuck's heart skipped another beat, trying not to blush or smile too hard.

For her part, Ellie looked liable to burst from happiness. "I was upset with him for putting himself in harm's way, but for some reason, at the moment, I'm very _proud_ of him." She widened her eyes significantly as she nudged his shoulder with her fist. Apparently she approved of Sarah Walker, so far. But this was getting a bit out of hand.

"I was actually about to yell at you, Chuck, because you have avoided me for the last few days, but, uh…Maybe I won't, after all."

Chuck watched as Sarah literally clamped her teeth down on her lip to keep from smiling. It could have been so much worse, he supposed. Then Ellie turned to Sarah, so quickly that both he and the newest woman in his life jumped. "Sarah, do you believe there are certain rights that should be inalienable to every citizen, whether man or woman?"

"Of course." It was such an immediate answer, and her tone was unwavering and matter-of-fact, almost as though she had expected the question. "Are you referring to the suffrage movement, Mrs. Woodcomb?"

Chuck Bartowski had not courted a great number of girls in his twenty six years of life, less than a handful in fact, and they had all married successful men since their respective dalliances with him. So he honestly had no idea what to expect from his sister when she met a woman he was interested in. Apparently, he should have expected her to test the woman right at the start.

And he was not even sure whether she was testing Sarah for his sake, or for her own. It was not as unfair a question as it seemed, considering how important Ellie's causes were to her—and by extension, how important they were to the brother who loved her.

Although Chuck had not even pondered the question of whether or not Sarah stood for equality between men and women, he realized now that it was because she seemed by nature a force to be reckoned with. She was a strong woman, secure in herself, confident about what she wanted, what she had to do to live. He had no doubt she supported the cause. She was the epitome of the cause, just like Ellie was.

He watched his sister's hazel eyes flash in what he could only define as curiosity. And there was no reeling her back now. All he could do was press his lips together and shrug a little at Sarah, who seemed to be looking to him for some sort of explanation of what she should do in this situation.

"Yes, I have to admit. I am curious. Where do you stand on that issue?"

Poor Ellie was trying so hard not to sound eager, her voice measured, even while he could almost hear her panting. It was at times like these that he could not help but be fond of her. If only a little.

"I stand exactly where I think every modern woman belongs. On the side fighting for equality."

Warmth and excitement radiated from his sister as she nodded. "I thought so." And then all of a sudden a small stack of pamphlets was on the display case in front of Sarah, who boggled a bit as she looked down at them.

"Ellie, come now. Don't…"

"Any woman who believes she has the right to vote has to fight for that right. Or we'll get nowhere in this plugged up society." Ellie fixed her skirt. "And don't you try to argue with me, brother."

He sent an apologetic glance at Sarah as Ellie turned back to her, but she only sent him a small smile he couldn't quite read. Though he thought perhaps she was amused, if nothing else. Which said an awful lot about her superior character. "Pass these out to other women. Get the word out. There will be a rally next month. I will be speaking. Chuck will be there." She patted his chest distractedly. "And he's making the buttons! Aren't you, dear brother?"

This was the first he had heard of it, but with Sarah looking at him so expectantly, and knowing how difficult it would be to live with Ellie if he said no, he nodded with a smile. "Of course I am."

The pleased smile on Ellie's face was reward enough and he thought maybe he could assign Casey the task. The old growl-puss would certainly enjoy that. _Ha!_

"Well, I should get home." His sister turned to Sarah and smiled apologetically. "My husband worked the night shift last night and he is going to want his tea and biscuits. The poor man has tried to do it himself on countless occasions, but manages to flub it up every time."

"He tries, which is important," Chuck offered. "And are you referring to the time he put bacon in the biscuit batter? Because I know you didn't appreciate it very much, but I certainly did."

Sarah giggled at the sound Ellie made.

"Wait, Ellie. Did you come here for a reason? Not that you need a reason. It's just that you…usually have a reason."

"I told you, goof. To yell at you for being too busy to see your sister. We will sit and have a long chat when you get home to make up for it." She winced, then spun back to Sarah. "I should clarify! Chuck doesn't live with us. He lives in the rooms on the second floor of our home. He rents from us."

"Ellie."

"He pays his own way and everything."

"Ellie?"

"He even cooks his own meals on occasion. And he isn't terrible."

"Ellie."

"Every so often I invite him down to join Devon and I for, oh, how sweet you are, Charles, you look like a tomato." She patted his cheek and looked on the verge of laughter, even though she seemed a little sorry. But not much. Sarah, on the other hand, gave in to the urge and laughed outright. He was sure his clothes would catch fire if he blushed any harder.

"He is sweet," she said through her laughter, and even though this did nothing to alleviate the embarrassment, there was so much warmth in her voice that it caught both his and Ellie's attention.

"Well, it was very lovely meeting you, Sarah. And I hope to see you again."

"I count on it."

Chuck could not help the grin on his face, his blush gone for the most part, as Ellie kissed his cheek and patted his shoulder. "Don't forget, Devon asked you to wind the grandfather in my entryway. It's been fussy ever since that earthquake a month ago."

"I will not forget."

She flashed one last smile at Sarah before she left through the same door she had entered. He heard his sister chirp a farewell in the direction of John Casey and was amused by the response—a mute growl.

Then he turned back to Sarah, who had been watching him a bit expectantly.

"That is Eleanor Bartowski Woodcomb," she said with a small smile, waving the small pile of pamphlets in front of her, before tucking them into her cloak securely.

"Yes. I want to apologize for her shoving those at you, by the way. It isn't that I don't support her causes—after all, I'm making her coalition buttons—but it is so very often at the forefront of her mind." He cleared his throat. "She doesn't ask every woman she meets, either."

"No, I understand. It _is _an important cause. Rest assured, I'll pass these out."

"You don't have to. You can give them to me and I'll do it during my lunch promenade," he said, rolling the 'r' in the word and smirking a little.

She let out a small huff of laughter and smiled. "No, truly. I am glad to aid in any way I can. She is a force to be reckoned with, isn't she?"

"Multiple forces at once, I would say."

"Did she ever see battle? She's probably too young, isn't she?"

Chuck frowned thoughtfully for a moment. "Oh, you mean the Battle of San Andreas?"

Before the battle, for years the coast of Central and Northern California was lived off of by farmers. After the Pacific Wars, displaced veterans were shoved into housing facilities dotted along the coast. Then in the year 1880, His Majesty the King of the United States Empire ordered the farmers and veterans to abandon the area, relinquishing the land along the San Andreas fault line to the Empire for reasons not specified. When the farming community and the veterans did not comply, His Majesty's Forces moved in and removed them with excessive violence. They strung hell wire around the area afterwards, resulting in even more casualties when those who refused to accept defeat attempted to climb over and reclaim their homes. Not to mention the toll on the livestock living in the area.

The Battle of San Andreas and was known across the map as the "Women and Children War", considering the amount of women and children who had taken up arms against the government to protect their homes and livelihoods. The three day battle left thousands homeless and at least three hundred dead.

"No, she wasn't old enough. She is only four years my senior, which would have made her fourteen at the time. And we were far enough removed from it down here. We didn't even hear of it until the day after the bloodshed ended." He saw her pinched features and slowly reached out to lightly touch her wrist with his fingers. "Did you know someone?"

She shook her head. "No. Did you?"

Chuck smiled a little. "The only people I knew in the whole world were right here with me." He shrugged.

Sarah smiled back and nodded. A slightly uncomfortable silence slipped in between them as he pulled his hand back and crossed his arms over his chest.

"So did you need anything?" She quirked an eyebrow. "I—That was rude. I'm sorry. What I meant was, are you here because you need something fixed? Can I provide you with a decorative dirk?" He grinned and gestured grandly at the glass display case between them.

She made a face that he translated as "what would I need one of those for" and then eyed the weaponry closely, her azure eyes alight with curiosity. Then he saw her gaze halt on a kīla he kept in the case for decorative purposes only. It was a beautiful piece, carved with Tibetan patterns and a Buddha head at the end of the hilt. He had in fact polished the iron triangular blade and polished the brass handle just a few days before to take a break from the monotony of repair work.

"Do you like that one?" he asked. "It's called a kīla. This one in particular was used for meditation purposes. I think that's why I like it so much. A weapon used for peace." He raised his head and looked at her. When her blue eyes lifted to his, they were almost searching.

"It's very beautiful. Do you collect a lot of exotic weaponry."

"Not as a rule, no. But sometimes I stumble across them at auctions and can't help myself. Actually, I have a tendency to fiddle with them, make improvements and the like."

"Improvements?" She lowered her chin and raised an eyebrow.

"Would you like to see?"

"Indeed I would."

He motioned for her to come around the display case and opened the door into his workshop for her to enter first, following and leaving Morgan to manage the front. "I'm drawn to pretty weapons, as strange as that might sound. Not to use. I wouldn't know how to use a knife save to fix myself a sandwich." She giggled at that. "But I do like to make little changes to the mechanisms of it. Just to see if it works. Curiosity, I suppose."

"They say curiosity killed the cat," she murmured, then seemed a little nervous after she said it. He didn't know why, so he just chuckled good-naturedly.

"Well, I'm glad I'm not a cat then."

The snort she let out was the most genuine thing he had heard come out of her in the last three weeks, and by far the sweetest.

Chuck led Sarah to a workspace nestled in the front corner of the large workshop and noticed as he glanced at her that she had caught sight of Casey at his own work station, her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. When he turned his gaze to the burly man, he was glancing back at the young woman. He cleared his throat and Casey went back to his work, Sarah turning to look at him with a polite smile. "That is John Casey, my assistant." He cleared his throat in the other man's direction and waited for him to look up from his work before continuing. "John, this is Miss Walker."

"Good to meet you, Mister Casey."

Casey responded with a grunt of acknowledgment and a short nod of the head, but nothing more as he went back to his work. Chuck knew Casey's reception should not have caused him to bristle as much as it did because it was in the man's nature, but this wasn't just anyone. This was Sarah Walker.

Thankfully, she did not seem offended in the slightest as she turned back to him. "I wasn't aware you had an assistant. I'm glad."

"He is very helpful." He heard a soft snort from Casey's workstation and fought to keep from glaring in that direction. "Uh. Right. Let me show you something I've been working on." He rounded his work table and pulled out a drawer, lifting a slightly dingy bowie knife and setting it on the table top. "Usually when I am going to experiment, I use something like this. Because it's already dented up. I wouldn't use the kīla for instance. Or anything too decorative and high quality. Also I'm not even sure I could slice butter with this thing, the blade's so dull."

He picked it up and twisted it in his hand. "But basically, say you're using it to clean out a hog for roasting or something. It's covered in pig mess, so you just…" He gripped the hilt and pressed a small trigger nestled beneath the guard and an off-white rag spilled out of the pommel of the knife.

Chuck grinned and spread his hands out excitedly, waggling the rag back and forth.

"Oh. I, uh. I see. It's…a rag?"

He sagged a little and looked down at it, then back to her face, and back to the invention again. "It's to…clean the blade after you use it." There was a quiet moment in which both of them stared at it. "It was just an idea." Sarah twisted her mouth to the side when her bottom lip began to quiver, and when that didn't work, she clamped her teeth down on it. "This is utterly ridiculous, isn't it?"

She shook her head, blue eyes wide and bright, but the smile was leaking through. It was obvious she was doing everything she could to keep from laughing, especially considering the way her eyes were a little moist at the corners.

Amusement bubbled up from his center, and a peal of genuine laughter escaped. Sarah finally let her own mirth break free. The inventor peered down at the silly contraption in his hand. "I like to try new things, I suppose," he said between chuckling.

"It isn't terrible, truly," she said in an attempt to placate him. But he shook his head furiously, laughing again.

"It's pretty terrible."

"I could'a told you that, Boss," they heard Casey say from his own workspace.

"But you _didn't_," Chuck shot back, waving the bowie knife so that the protruding rag shimmied back and forth. A grunt answered. "I suppose there is more where that came from." He gave her a self-deprecating smile and tossed the knife back into its drawer, slamming it shut with a finally that made them both chuckle.

Casey pushed his stool out and climbed to his feet. "I have an errand to run. I'll be back in an hour."

"Alright. Take your time." Chuck shoved his hands in his pocket and watched Casey leave the side door with a friendly smile stretching his lips. Sarah watched Casey's departure the whole way, then turned back to Chuck.

"You know, I should head home and get some sleep. Thank you for showing me your…_invention_." She smirked and began walking back towards the front. Chuck's eyes widened as he stepped forward, pulling his hands from his pockets.

"Oh, of course. You worked all night. I'm sorry I kept you for something so…silly." The right side of his mouth quirked upwards in a goofy smile.

"No, I'm glad you did. As silly as it was, you…" She stopped and smiled, folding her hands together in front of her. "You made my day." His smile grew so that it wrinkled his nose. "Stop by the Aviator's Timepiecetomorrow night after you close up here. I'll have some hot nutmeg and a lingonberry scone waiting for you."

"You know I will," he said, his tone brimming with confidence as she left the shop. There was a beautiful and interesting woman in his life who undoubtedly found him interesting as well.

Nothing could go wrong.

}o{

Sarah caught sight of John Casey moving at a determined pace down the sidewalk, stepping into the road to get to the other side of the street. She followed a safe distance behind him, blatantly ignoring a man who gave her an appreciative glance as she passed. Her black cloak covered a good deal of her uniform, but it also left things to the imagination, and some men had more imagination than others in her experience.

Bryce had not said anything about a John Casey, or about the fact that Chuck had an assistant. Did the mechanic-savvy toymaker even get that much clientele that he needed an assistant? Or did he hire the older man because he had shown up at his front door asking for a job and the soft-hearted sap couldn't say no?

The woman knew already that Chuck Bartowski was quick to trust people, and most likely quick to take pity on people, quick to help—selfless to a fault. Even by normal people's standards. Sarah found selflessness to be a throwaway virtue, something she had never put to use in her own existence in which every woman was for herself.

She watched as Casey boarded a trolley that stopped in the middle of the road. Slipping through the group of people also attempting to board the already crowded vehicle and taking advantage of two young men's distraction as she flashed them her brilliant smile, she stepped up onto the trolley as it pulled away again. The two men were shocked, running after the trolley and finally giving up chase as they realized it was a hopeless cause.

With a small smirk at her success, she pushed up onto her tip-toes to peer over the shoulder of the massively rotund business man in front of her. John Casey stood near the front of the car, facing off to the side as he watched the passing scenery.

He alighted fifteen minutes later, Sarah having kept herself from being spotted the entire time by slinking behind other people every time someone got off. It had occurred to her for a moment to pull her hood up, as she usually did when following Chuck around at night, but this John Casey fellow was not Chuck. And there was a chance there was more to him than met the eye. Seeing a woman with a black hood pulled over her face would set off some alarms for certain. She hurried off, gracefully stepping onto the sidewalk and turning to the side so that it did not look like she was watching him.

He didn't seem to take notice of her as he prowled down the sidewalk towards what looked like the post building. She watched him enter the door but stayed where she was, periodically glancing over as she waited for him to appear again.

He did, glancing to the left and right. He set his newsboy back onto his head and continued down the street, away from her.

Sarah walked calmly to the post office and stepped inside, the bell jingling over her head making her grit her teeth in annoyance. The clerk looked up from where he sat hunched over his desk and she flashed him her dazzling smile. His pen dropped from his fingers as his jaw went slack. "Oh, Sir…I'm hoping you can help me. I _am_ in a terrible mess."

He smoothed down his striped vest and leaned forward, concern etched into his features. "I'll do everything within my power, my dear."

"You're so kind. You see…" She paused, gnawing on her lip, her eyes comically wide and distressed. "Oh, this is so embarrassing. I'm just _so_ ashamed."

"Now, now. Don't you fret. We'll see what we can do. You tell me what's wrong."

She sighed and buried her face in her hands for a moment before peeking up at him, flashing her baby blues before folding her hands together and lowering them. "I asked my husband to send a message…I-I think he must have just been here. I was so distracted this morning, you see I didn't sleep well, and I told him the wrong thing to say in the message. Oh, I'm so embarrassed." She set a hand to her forehead and her eyes brimmed with mortified tears.

"Now don't you cry, we'll see what's to be done. Was he wearing a black vest? Gray shirt?"

"Yes! And he had his favorite hat on his head. Gray. He tends to scowl a lot, even though I've tried to fix him of the habit—he really _is _friendly, I promise."

"Well, he just left a moment before you came in!"

"Did he? Oh I was hoping to catch him before he gave you the message." Her shoulders sagged as she looked to the floor. "I suppose there's nothing to be done now."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the man's fingers drum on the desk nervously and his brow furrow in consternation. "No, I-I'm terribly sorry. Privacy and all that, miss—er—ma'am."

"No, no. I understand. You won't even let me see it? Maybe he knew just what to say even though I told him wrong?" She raised her unusually blue eyes to his, peering up through her lashes.

"Well, I—"

"Oh, please? You're such a kind man. You would make my whole week, I swear it! If I can't change the message, I can at least find out what it said so that I can send a correction message if need be." She bit her lip, pleading with her hands gripping his wrist, managing to shrink a bit smaller.

"Well…Oh, it wouldn't hurt." She grinned brightly and he blushed red as a pomegranate.

"You're just everything a man should be," she gushed as he tore the envelope open and slid the letter to her over the desk. She flashed him another smile and he sent one back, then she unfolded the letter and read it.

_GB _

_No BL yet. Waiting for Bart. to make move. _

_Girl hanging around. Suspicious. Keeping eye on her._

_Expected money on Tues train but not there. You want continued _

_services, need double on next train._

_JC _

She turned over the envelope and saw it was addressed to Langley, Virginia. As she shoved the letter back into the envelope, she thought furiously as to what that might mean. The only things in Langley of any importance were the various government intelligence agencies that worked for the crown. Why would the assistant of a toy shop owner be contacting the government? Unless the burly fellow had family there, which was unlikely considering the contents of the note. Could it be John Casey worked for some government agency? Was he a spy with the Imperial Espionage League? Was GB some kind of general perhaps?

One thing she knew for sure was that whoever John Casey was, he was not working with Bryce. If he was not a threat to her mission, he was not going to help it any…which meant she would have to get rid of him. The small pistol in her pouch felt heavier as she thanked the clerk once more and hurried out into the bustling morning hubbub.

* * *

**A/N: **How's that for a bit of mystery? Ho ho!

So I slipped an itty bitty _Firefly _allusion into this chapter. Not sure if anyone caught it. But let me know if you did. And I'll give you major props. Because that's really all I can afford. At the moment. Major props.

'Til next we meet again, you beautiful button balloons!

SC


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